Chasing Shadows
by MaverickLover2
Summary: Sometimes after a tragedy you have to run away to find yourself. Sometimes you're just chasing shadows.
1. The Long Road Down

Chasing Shadows

Chapter 1 – The Long Road Down

 _Bart was dressed in his traveling clothes, with his suitcase in his hand. He looked down at Samantha and a sardonic smile barely creased his face._

 _He stood there for a moment, not saying anything. Then he made his way down the rest of the stairs before setting his bag on the floor._

" _I'm leaving."_

 _She stared at him blankly. "Where will you go?"_

 _He had apparently given that some thought. "Mexico." It seemed like the most reasonable place to him. A man could get lost in Mexico. Hide from the world for a while. Live in a place with no reminders. And maybe learn to live with his grief._

 _It took her a minute to realize the depth of his need to leave._

 _The weight of his grief wouldn't let him breathe anymore. If he was ever going to be Bart Maverick again, he had to go. And it had to be now, before the very act of being alive became too much._

 _He picked up his belongings and walked out the door._

That was three days ago. He'd done nothing but ride since then, ever mindful of the pain in his arm and the knife in his heart. He'd headed southwest and stayed on that course until he ran into the little town of Magdalena. As he rode down the dusty street he counted three cantina's and two social clubs. He was tired, dirty, hungry, and sick, but there was no medicine in the world that would cure the illness he had. And he needed a drink.

At the end of the street was a tiny hotel named 'Mama Castillo's Inn' that was little more than a hovel, but he stopped in front of the building and tied his horse up. With suitcase in hand he went inside, requiring nothing more than a room to sleep and drink in. He was in luck. The last room available overlooked the main street if it could be called that, and it was his. He trudged upstairs and dropped his suitcase next to the bed, leaving it unopened. He slipped the bottle of whiskey out of his saddle bags and pulled out the cork, not even bothering with a glass. Straight from the bottle, the way he'd been drinking ever since he left the ranch in New Mexico. There, that was better. He threw his hat on the chair, dropped his gun belt on the floor, and collapsed on the bed. He unwound the sling from his neck gingerly and tossed it over the back of the chair, next to his hat. He didn't bother with his boots.

He couldn't decide which was worse, the pain in his arm or the one in his belly, earned by three straight days of nothing but rotgut. Drunk had ceased to be a state of existence; it simply was. The only way he could tolerate the misery in his heart and mind was to keep drinking the swill in that bottle, and if the price he had to pay was a stomach on fire, so be it. If he was sober when he closed his eyes he saw Caroline; nothing but Caroline. He heard her laugh, he felt her skin, he smelled her hair. Dead drunk was the only way he could allow himself to rest, so once again he proceeded to get that way. Within an hour he was asleep or passed out; he had no idea which and couldn't care less.

He stayed that way most of the night and when he finally woke a little after sunup his mouth was dry and his head hurt. Only one thing to do, and that was to start drinking all over again. Only problem was, he was out of whiskey. He got up and staggered across the room, trying to remember where he'd dropped everything last night. Slowly he realized that he still had his jacket on and reached inside to see if his wallet was there. It was, and it had money in it. He knew at some point he'd have to start playing poker again, but not today.

Stumbling down the steps he went to the front desk, if it could be called that, to see if anyone spoke English. Right now his tongue couldn't handle Spanish. Fortunately, the man downstairs spoke enough English to get by. He put ten dollars down on the desk. "Bring me back two bottles of whatever you can get and keep the rest."

"Mescal, Señor? Is okay?" the desk man inquired.

"Don't care. Long as its liquor. Room six."

"Si, Señor. Uno momento."

He managed to get back upstairs without falling down or over anything. This time before he lay back down on the bed he did his best to get his boots and jacket off, and after a struggle managed both. The whiskey had been out of his bloodstream long enough that his arm throbbed and ached; that came from forcing it into holding his horse's reins long before he should have. He couldn't hold the reins in his right hand, he needed that to hang onto the bottle.

It took almost fifteen minutes before there was a knock on the door. He struggled to get out of bed but finally managed it and pulled the door open. There were two large bottles of something that looked like murky amber, and he picked them up one at a time and brought them into the room. This time he used a glass, pouring the golden liquid almost to the top before corking the bottle and taking a drink. He shuddered but swallowed. It was better than the whiskey and worse than the whiskey. He set the bottle on the floor next to the bed and took the glass with him over to the window. The sleepy little town was just starting to wake up and come to life, and he pulled up a chair and sat down to watch the world pass him by.

He drank almost half a glass before the pain in his head started to lessen. That wasn't enough to make his mind and heart stop aching, but it helped. He knew that in a few minutes that pain would begin to fade, too, and he'd be left with a big, black hole where his life had been. For right now Caroline was still alive in his thoughts and all he wanted to do was drift into a stupor and hold her close once more. It had been more than two weeks since she was killed, shot right in front of him, and he still hadn't been able to bury her in his mind. She was always there, right below the surface of his consciousness, until that beautiful warm glow from the nasty tasting liquor overtook him and he could forget everything . . . . . . . . the love, the pain, the girl. His girl. His wife. His dead wife.

But with the liquor and the blessed, mind-numbing stupor came the tears. Whether he wanted them or not, they appeared just as surely as he breathed. In great gulping sobs, over and over they wracked his body, his soul, until he was exhausted and drained of feeling and spirit. Then the cycle started all over again, and he succumbed to unconsciousness or slept for more hours. Right now that was Bart Maverick's life. And he had no desire or will to change it.

 _She was truly beautiful. How had he not noticed that all this time? She briefly smiled at him and lowered her eyes, as if she knew what he was thinking._

 _He gathered her into his arms and kissed her. This time there was no hurry to his kiss, no apologizing for it. There was only the kiss and the way she felt in his arms. She kissed him back._

 _They stepped apart and looked at each other. He swept her into his arms and carried her up the staircase and into his room._


	2. Plunging Into the Abyss

Chapter 2 – Plunging Into the Abyss

He spent another night fully dressed on the bed. He got up only because his stomach simply wouldn't take any more liquor after five days with nothing else in it. He hadn't shaved, bathed, or changed clothes in those five days, and he looked like hell. Worse still, he felt like hell. He had to get some kind of food in him to keep drinking.

Once again he stumbled downstairs to the man at the front desk. "Food?"

"Si, Señor. Ah, Cantina Americana." The clerk pointed up the street. "Dos, tres doors. Delicioso."

"Gracias." Bart managed to get out of the hotel and headed up the dirt path that passed as a sidewalk. Two doors up was the Cantina Americana, and he staggered inside and dropped into a chair at the first empty table. A lovely senorita came over and he ordered, "Food, any kind of food, and mescal."

"Si, Señor." She stepped up to the little bar and ordered something; he didn't pay any attention to what. Within a minute she was back with a glass of mescal, and he drank it in great gulping swallows.

"Gracias. Otra."

"Si, Senor."

When she returned this time she brought a glass and the bottle, a plate of eggs and some kind of sausage, with tortillas. He ate everything she brought him and finished off another glass of the mescal. His stomach hemmed and hawed, not able to make up its mind whether to keep the food down or not, but finally settled. He cleaned his plate with the last tortilla and poured another glass. When she came to retrieve the empty plate he asked, "Poker?"

"Si, Señor. Después del anochecer."

"Aha," he answered. After dark. Good to know. Even in his state of inebriation he knew that he couldn't keep drinking and sleeping forever; his body just wouldn't tolerate the continued abuse. A fleeting thought crossed his mind but didn't remain; it was too bizarre to even consider. He paid for the food and drink and stood to leave but found his legs unwilling to move him out of the cantina. Oh well, he reasoned, why not just stay here and drink?

And that's exactly what he did. For almost the whole day. Through the vaqueros that came in for breakfast of one kind or another, to the merchants there for a quick bite of lunch both solid and liquid, to the drifters and farmers who wandered in at the end of their day and wanted sustenance. Surprisingly he found himself in need of more than just additional mescal and he ate supper; not sure of exactly what it was, it still stopped the constant complaining that his stomach was engaged in.

And then the sun went down, and the cantina began to fill with men who wanted nothing more than drink and distraction. He still sat, watching the empty tables vanish and the cards appear, until the room was loud and smoke-filled. Only then did he stir, when it became obvious he was either going to have to leave or play poker. He chose the latter.

His card playing was disjointed and distracted; he couldn't concentrate or even remember the hierarchy of the poker hands at first. It had been weeks since his brain was required to do anything other than idly occupy space in his head, and he lost far more hands than he won. By midnight he was almost broke and he knew it was time to either finally return to his room and pass out or pay more attention to the game he was unwittingly involved in. Still not quite ready to resume any kind of normal life, drunk or sober, he picked himself up gingerly from the chair he'd occupied for almost sixteen hours and managed to careen back towards his room.

The stairs at Hovel Hotel were almost too much for him to manage, and by sheer force of will and a wobbling hand rail he finally succeeded in getting to his door. The effort of the climb was more taxing than he'd expected and he had to lean against his door for almost five minutes before he could persuade himself to unlock it. The room was dark and he practically fell into it, tripping over something on the floor and collapsing onto the bed. The only thing that prevented his falling asleep in his boots again was the considerable pain he felt in his toes from jamming them into a rather solid object on entry. He found the kerosene lamp by the bed and turned it on. Cleaning the room had been attempted and in the process the small table on the floor was moved directly in front of the bed. That was the culprit currently responsible for the pain in his foot.

Since he was already on the bed, he put forth his best effort to remove the boots. He struggled mightily and ultimately succeeded, realizing that the awful smell that drifted up to his nose was from his own feet. Even in the state he was in he had to admit it was past time to do some personal grooming. Making the decision to begin tomorrow rather than tonight was easy, and he finally drifted off into drunken dreams.

" _I believe you owe me a favor," Caroline was quick to point out. "This was my fathers and I would appreciate it if you would wear it." She handed Bart a small box. He opened the lid carefully and found a gold wedding band inside. He picked up the ring and slipped it on his finger. "Why not?" he asked._

 _She looked pleased. "Thank you. I think it's appropriate; it will help with the illusion." She got up from the table. "Well, good night."_

 _He picked up the deck of cards again and started shuffling. "Good night." He watched her as she walked up the stairs without looking back. He looked down again at the gold ring on his left hand. 'Roped, tied and branded,' he thought to himself._

The first thing he did when he woke up was reach for the bottle of mescal. The second thing he did was hold his hand in front of his face until his eyes focused and he could stare at the gold ring on his left hand. It was still there, where it had been ever since he'd slipped it on his finger that night in Dry Springs. It couldn't stay there, it was a symbol of something that no longer existed. He took it off his hand and examined it carefully, the indication of love Caroline's mother had given her father. That's not what it represented when Caroline gave it to him; it was a contract of sorts, a sign to the outside world that he had promised to love and cherish her for the rest of his life. Which he did, technically, but hadn't in actuality meant it until the last night of her life. Almost the last night of his.

Maybe it should have been. The notion strolled through his mind, not for the first time, that he should have died with her that day. Then all this misery and suffering would be over and done with. He didn't discard the thought so much as let it wander off by itself, and went back to staring at the wedding ring. The bargain he'd entered into with Samantha Crawford, her cousin, might be dead, fulfilled the day he married Caroline and dissolved the day he buried her, but the feelings that had made themselves abundantly clear the night before the murder were alive and well and rampant in his psyche. Not wanting to let go of those feelings, he returned the ring to a different spot, placing it on the pinky finger of his right hand, where it would remain for untold years.

There, he'd taken the first step in shedding the life he'd lived for the past few months and walking out into the new world that waited for him. It was the only productive thing he'd done in six days and the mere act of switching the ring to a different hand had exhausted him. He took another drink from the bottle of mescal and contemplated his next move.

He wiggled his toes on the bed and remembered last night. He really had to do something about the smell that emanated from various parts of his body. Even drunk he could no longer stand himself. Maybe there was hope of having a bath drawn here? He laughed at the thought but decided it was worth a try. He sat up slowly and put his boots back on, then got to his feet shakily. One more trip down the stairs to see if a bath of any sort could be arranged. There was a new person at the front desk, a Señora of some girth, and she looked up and smiled until he got within 'smell' range. Mama Castillo, perhaps?

"Señora, un baño? Agua caliente?"

"Si, Señor. Dentro de una hora."

He nodded and climbed back up the stairs. An hour. That was better than having to go looking for a place to bathe. He was going to have to visit a barber, however; his hands were shaking too badly to even attempt to shave. He picked up the bottle of mescal from the table and took a swallow; it was going down a whole lot easier than it had at first and seemed to be upsetting his system a lot less than the whiskey had. Setting the bottle back down, he decided that he would go find a barber while he waited for the bath. Why waste a perfectly good hour?

One more time back down the stairs, and one more stop at the Señora's station. "Barbero?"

"Si, Señor. Por la calle."

"Gracias."

He was walking steadier, for some reason, and he left the 'hotel' and headed down the street. Just a few doors down he found the barber and startled himself when he walked in and caught a glimpse in the mirror. Who was that wooly-faced man staring back at him? Red-rimmed eyes, gaunt and pale, he resembled the shell he felt like.

"A shave, Señor?" The barber asked in English.

"Si," he answered out of habit. The man with the razor motioned him to sit in the chair and soon his face was lathered and being expertly shaved. Bart paid when the barber was finished and felt his chin. Smooth again for the first time in almost a week, at least he was beginning to feel better outwardly. He made it back to the hotel and up to his room about the same way he'd made it down and realized that he had to open his suitcase to get clean clothes out. He picked up the bag and laid it on the bed, then unhooked the latch and opened it. His clothing burst forth in an eruption of fabric and he stared at it glumly, as if it was something to be feared and loathed. Even his clothes reminded him of Caroline, and with no fanfare he found a clean shirt, pants, underwear and socks.

He laid his clothes on the bed and closed the suitcase up. There was no need for anything further from inside it. He removed his jacket, wallet still inside, his hat, and gun belt and left them in the room, taking another drink from the bottle by the bed before getting back downstairs to the 'bath' room. Maybe he could wash away some of the pain and guilt he felt right along with the dirt.

Después del anochecer – After dark

Un baño? Agua caliente? – A bath? Hot water?

Dentro de una hora – In an hour

Por la calle – Down the street


	3. Melodia Montoya

Chapter 3 – Melodia Montoya

When he arrived at the 'bath' room, he found a tub full of hot water and a beautiful Senorita of about twenty years old expecting to help him bathe. At least that's what she told him.

"Yo estoy aquí para ayudarle."

"You are – oh no you're not."

"Si, Señor. Señora Castillo told me I must," she pleaded with him.

"Well, you're not. Go back and tell Señora Castillo I refused to let you." Drunk or sober, the Señorita was NOT going to help him take a bath.

Big tears began to roll down the Señorita's face. "I will be dismissed. Please, Señor, I must keep this job. I beg of you, let me stay here. I will do anything you wish."

"What's your name, Señorita?"

"Melodia Montoya, Señor."

"Can't you get another job, Melodia Montoya?" he asked her skeptically.

She shook her head. "No, Señor. I am supposed to be a teacher, but there is no school for me to teach the niños in. This was the only job I could find."

"And you're supposed to assist men that come to bathe?"

"No, Señor. Just the Americanos that come to bathe."

"Are there many of those?" If it weren't so absurd, he would have laughed.

She shook her head again. "No, Señor. You are the first."

He did laugh, then. Once again the tears began to fall from her lovely eyes. "Don't cry, Melodia. I'm not laughin' at you, honest. You see that stool over there?" He pointed to the corner. "Yes? Go sit on it and face the wall. You don't need to help me and you sure don't need to watch me. We'll make it our secret, alright?"

"Si, Señor. Gracias."

He waited until she was seated facing the wall before he began unbuttoning his shirt and getting undressed. He left everything in a pile on the floor; the clothes were so dirty and irredeemable that they should probably be burned. The water felt good, nice and hot, soothing to his poor abused body, and he ducked his head under water for a moment to wash his hair. When he came back up for air he was startled to see that the girl was standing next to the tub, holding a large towel for him. "Back to the stool, Melodia," he told her sternly, and she reluctantly laid the towel over the edge of the tub and went back to her seat. "And stay there," he told her before proceeding with the ritual of scrubbing a week's worth of dust, dirt, grime, and sweat off of himself. "Why isn't there a school for you to teach in?" he asked, for no reason other than he could keep track of where she was in the room from the sound of her voice.

"The old school burned and there is no money to build a new one," she answered from the corner. "Perhaps next year, they tell me."

"And that's what you want to do?"

"Si, Señor. More than anything in the world."

They passed the next few minutes in silence as he scrubbed everything he could think of to scrub.

"Señor, what is your name? What do I call you?"

"Call me Bart," he told her. "Bart Maverick."

"You are a lawman?"

He laughed out loud again. "No, Melodia, I'm not a lawman. Why would you ask that?"

"I don't know. Something about the way you walk – as if you carried the weight of the world on your shoulders. A man with a heavy burden, like someone who upholds the law."

"No, no lawman. No outlaw, either. Just a gambler, I'm afraid."

"A gambler? You do this for a job?"

"Si," he answered, finally done scrubbing and rinsing the dirt off. He stood and grabbed the towel, and in that instant she turned quickly and snuck a look. _'Dios mío. Tan hermosa,'_ she thought to herself.

He remained unaware of her peeking and began humming as he wiped the water from his body. He got out of the tub and finished the toweling off, addressing the getting dressed issue. Once he was buttoning up his shirt he told her, "You can turn around now."

She did better than that, she got up and brought the stool to help with his boots. Bart sat and she slipped them back on him, one at a time. She was ill at ease that she'd snuck a look at the American, but glad that she had. He was a magnificent looking man. Even with the unmistakable smell of mescal about him, he seemed kind and modest. Not like the other boys she'd known. He held out his hand to pull her to her feet, then laughingly handed her the wet towel.

He felt more human now that he had gotten cleaned up, but he needed to get back to his room and bottle. "I have to go now, Melodia. Thanks for the help. Good luck with your school." Before she could say anything else he was gone, anxious to return to his room and the pure obliteration that awaited him. She had the strangest feeling she hadn't seen the last of him.

XXXXXXXX

Well, at least he didn't smell anymore. He was glad to be back in his room, where he could drink to his heart's content without interference from or interaction with anyone. The mescal was right where he'd left it, and in no time he was mostly oblivious to everything around him. He wiled away the day by drinking and playing Maverick solitaire, trying to get the feel of the cards back into his fingers. After last night's losing and the thinness of the funds left in his wallet, he needed to go back to playing the game he'd always loved and not what he'd been doing since Caroline's death.

After a while he started to handle the cards more confidently. He was sure he could win at poker again but for some reason he started practicing all the ways that Pappy taught he and his brother to cheat – something they didn't do unless they were being cheated. The methods, second dealing, bottom dealing, stacking the deck, and so many that Pappy had either invented or perfected, had always felt dishonest and difficult to perform. They didn't feel that way right now, and he got more and more comfortable with them. If he cheated somebody locally no one in the States would ever find out, or maybe he would get caught by someone and they'd decide the matter with a gun. Would it be so bad if he was killed while playing poker?

There, he'd finally said it. What if he was shot over a card game? Would it even things out for the senseless death of the woman he'd fallen in love with? Maybe not, but he would no longer be sitting in a Mexican hovel drinking his pain away. He realized it had gotten dark outside and he hadn't eaten anything since last night. He took one more drink of the mescal and unpinned the thousand-dollar bill he carried inside his jacket, putting it in his wallet and getting up from the table he'd spent the whole day at. He didn't feel any better than yesterday, more hung over and hungrier, but at least he could stand the way he smelled now. Time to go see if he could still make the cards talk.

Yo estoy aquí para ayudarle – I am here to assist you.

Dios mío. Tan hermosa – My God. So beautiful.


	4. Death Wish

Chapter 4 – Death Wish

He played poker and drank; drank and played poker. By midnight he was down to his last two hundred dollars and he still didn't understand what he was doing wrong. The cards weren't falling for him, he was overbidding the losing hands and underbidding the winning ones, and no matter how much mescal he drank or how many cigars he smoked Caroline's face seemed to be the only thing he could see clearly. Finally, in desperation, he palmed a card and won the hand. After that he kept telling himself, _'Just one more hand and I'll quit this',_ but it got easier and easier to win when he played dishonestly. By dawn he'd won back all the money he'd lost and was ahead by over five-hundred dollars.

One by one the men at the table quit and went home or to bed or to work, and Bart once again ordered breakfast and another bottle. The same attractive Señorita served his food, and although it was different than what he'd had before it was every bit as good. This time when he was finished he actually paid for his meal and drink and left the cantina, taking his bottle with him.

It was either getting easier going up the stairs or he was getting used to being drunk. It didn't matter which, as long as he got back to his room. He did, and this time he undressed and removed his boots before getting in to bed. He kept the bottle on the side table, just to be close, and fell into a deep sleep within minutes. For once his dreams didn't involve Caroline; instead they were all about Pappy and the poker lessons that he'd given Bart and his brother Bret as they were growing up and learning the game.

" _You can't cheat," Pappy told them time and time again. "But you have to know how it's done, so you can spot it when it's used against you. Then you need to know how to get back at the cheater. As long as you play an honest game of cards you can hold your head up and look any man in the eye. Remember, no cheatin'. It's an unfair advantage, and you're better poker players than that."_

The sound of a gunshot woke him, and it took him a few minutes to realize the gun was fired in his dreams and not in the real world. He finally went back to sleep, but Pappy's words rang in his ears - _"You can't cheat."_

Now his sleep was restless and fitful, and full of bizarre dreams. This time when he woke it was almost dark out, and he looked at his watch to see what time it was. The next thing he reached for was the bottle, which was nearly empty. Whether he wanted to or not, he was going to have to get up and go get more liquor. If he was going to do that he might as well go back to the cantina and play poker again. One more night, his mind told him. Then he'd stop and return to playing the game he loved the way he'd learned it.

Once he got to the cantina and had more of the liquid that had become his life's blood he tried playing without any subterfuge and poker began to go south again. His inability to win at the game by being honest completely escaped him, and he reverted to the method that worked. No one seemed to catch on to anything he did and his winning ways returned with the extra boost he provided. By dawn he'd doubled his funds and gotten restless, all in the same night.

He skipped eating and took three bottles with him back to the hotel. Before going to his room he paid two weeks rent and informed the desk clerk he would be gone for a few days. The room was nothing special but it was comfortable and he liked the location and view. He wanted to make sure he came back to the same spot.

He threw some clothes into his war bag, leaving his suitcase in the room, and packed two of the three bottles into his saddlebags. In just a few minutes he'd collected his horse from the poor excuse for a livery and headed out of town, east and slightly north. He rode for over a day, stopping as little as possible until he found a tiny town purely by accident. Its name was Pesqueria, and in addition to the small cantina right down the street from the general store it had what looked like a poker room four buildings past that. No place to sleep, but there was always a way around that.

He tied his horse outside the cantina and walked in. Something that smelled delicious drifted over to him and he sat and ordered a bottle and a serving of whatever was wafting on the air. He hadn't paid any attention to food since leaving Magdalena and didn't realize how hungry he was until he began to eat. The mescal here had a slightly different flavor but the same effect. There were three different poker games going and by the time he was done eating he had his pick of them.

An hour later he was in the middle of a game when his poker muse deserted him once more and he started double dealing. Nobody seemed to catch on to what he was doing and he resumed winning. It bothered him, knowing that he had to cheat to win; but not enough to prevent it. Pappy kept repeating in his head _'No cheatin', son'_ , and he kept drinking until the sound of the words faded into nothingness.

He played all night until there were no more men left to play with, then had one more glass of mescal before he got to his feet and stumbled his way outside. His horse was just where he'd left her and she whinnied plaintively. He untied her and walked her down to the little shack that served as a livery, where he made arrangements to have her fed and watered. The price of a stall gave him a place to sleep until the poker room opened later in the day, and he spread his bedroll right next to the mare. He sighed and never gave a second thought to sleeping with his horse; he simply took another drink from his bottle and lay down on the hay. His eyes closed and he was asleep quickly, dreaming once again of the awful morning Caroline died. This one was a little different, though.

 _Lon Tenley fixed his gaze steadily on Bart, standing on the staircase. "I ain't tellin' you again. Get down here."_

 _Bart took a step down, then another, and the man with the guns relaxed slightly. At that moment, the front door swung open and Caroline stood clearly in the sunlight. Tenley whirled around and fired. Bart let out a long yell "NO!" and grabbed for his gun as Caroline dropped to the floor. He hit Tenley with the first two bullets and missed with the third. Before the gunmen went down, he got off a shot that hit Bart square in the chest. Just as he reached the bottom of the staircase, Bart shot once more and Tenley dropped, dead._

 _Bart staggered to Caroline's side, mortally wounded himself. He picked her up in his arms, gently. She smiled with her eyes closed and whispered "Get him?"_

" _Yep." Bart could scarcely get the word out. He kissed Caroline tenderly on the lips and rocked her soundlessly. She was dying and he knew it. He suddenly realized that he was, too. "Bart." Her voice was barely a whisper. He had to lean close to her mouth to hear her. "I love you." She lay still in his arms._

 _He put his lips next to her ear. It was too late for her to hear him, but he didn't care. "I love you too." With a great sigh and one last breath, he slumped across her body and joined her in death._

Slowly he opened his eyes. For just a few moments he felt peaceful and content, knowing that on this day he'd united with his beloved in the hereafter. Then his mare whinnied, and he knew it was just a dream. And he wept bitter tears at the realization that he was still alive.


	5. The Cheater

Chapter 5 – The Cheater

The poker room opened at six o'clock and Bart was there soon after. He was surprised at the number of men there ready to play; for such a tiny town, the entire male population must be inside. He made no attempt to play honest poker. From the very first game he did whatever he could get away with. After the dream and the sad realization that he was still alive, he didn't care what happened as a result of the cheating.

This was a different sort of poker room. Everyone brought his own bottle and there was no friendly conversation between games or even individuals. Smoke was so thick in the room that it was difficult to see, and loud disagreements and arguments permeated the air. This was serious business.

None of that bothered Bart. He'd decided he needed to make enough money so he could just lie in his hotel room and drink himself to death, and he didn't care where or how he got it. He kept hoping for something, anything, to shatter the awful frame of mind he found himself in, but nothing seemed to touch him.

Around ten that night a fight broke out at one of the tables and every man grabbed his own money and ran until the dispute was settled. Bart simply sat there waiting to see what happened. One of the vaqueros pulled a knife and a fight to the death seemed to be on. Even the threat of an accidental stabbing didn't force movement on his part, and the men he'd been playing with whispered about "the gringo with no fear of death." They had no idea he was simply so drunk that he couldn't force himself to get out of the way.

The argument wasn't settled until the vaquero with the knife ran the other man out of the building. Swiftly everything went back to normal and the poker games resumed. Bart was offered a drink from the bottle of mescal that was passed around the table and he took it, then handed the bottle on. He'd been accepted into the group as one of them.

Finally as dawn broke the games were unceremoniously concluded and the men still there adjourned to the cantina for breakfast. Bart, having nothing better to do, went with them. They had no way of knowing that their new gringo comrade had cheated them all night. They ate and drank and talked about poker and when they all left to work at one thing or another he went back to the livery and paid to keep his horse for another day. And lay back down with the mare. _'One more day,'_ he promised himself.

Things weren't any different that night, except for the fact that everyone seemed to accept Bart as part of the poker playing group. There were two or three men who hadn't been there last night; one of them was playing at Bart's table. From the very beginning he seemed suspicious of the gringo and watched him carefully; Bart took great pains to make sure he played cards honestly and without any of the tricks he'd recently employed. The result of his poker playing didn't change; he kept right on winning.

It was midnight when the trouble started. The suspicious player had been coming up with 'second-best' hands for a while, and when he called and Bart laid down a small straight he slapped his three–of-a-kind down on the table and looked right at the Americano. "Yo no lo creo."

The gambler never said a word, just reached for the pot and dragged the winnings towards him. The Mexican pulled out a knife and in one swift move ran the blade through the money on the table and stated quite distinctly, "Tramposo."

Bart rose to his feet and yanked the knife out of the money, dropping the blade back on the table. He reached over and picked up the pot, bringing it over to his side. He still hadn't said a word. The Mexican collected his knife and repeated, "Gringo tramposo."

One of the men at the table quickly filled the newcomer in on last night's going on, trying to convince him that the gringo was not cheating. The original accuser shook his head vehemently and insisted again, "Gringo tramposo."

Bart almost laughed. He'd been playing an honest game tonight, and this was the night he got accused of cheating. Instead he answered back, "Sin trucos."

"Mentiroso."

He'd had enough, both of the accusations and the mescal. "Pruébalo."

It happened so quickly that Bart almost couldn't react fast enough. The newcomer grabbed the knife from the table and lunged, catching the gambler before he could get out of the way and running a nasty-looking gash part way up the arm that had taken Lon Tenley's bullet. Two of the men at the table grabbed the assailant and disarmed him, overturning the poker table in the process, and three Federales suddenly appeared out of nowhere. They pushed into the poker room and took custody of the man, hustling him out the door after briefly questioning the others at the table. None of them said one word to Bart, who was trying to wrap a handkerchief around the wound to stop the bleeding.

The room became dead still as a Señorita appeared at the door, looking around. As soon as she saw Bart she motioned him to follow her, and like an obedient child he did, back down the street to the general store. She took him inside, producing a bottle of whiskey from behind the counter, which she used to clean the knife wound. He gritted his teeth against the pain, grabbing the bottle from her and taking two or three good swallows before handing it back. She bandaged his arm and sent him back to the poker room, evidently serving as the town's 'doctor.'

He played the rest of the night with the arm throbbing from the knife cut and went back to cheating the unsuspecting locals at poker. He drank almost an entire bottle of mescal to dull the pain in his arm and his heart, and when dawn came and everyone adjourned again to the cantina he went with them one last time. He ate breakfast and brought with him a jug of the local mescal, then went back to the livery and spent his final morning there sleeping with his horse.

When he awoke it was early afternoon and his arm was extremely painful, but he saddled the mare and left Pesqueira, with twenty-five hundred dollars and one knife wound more than he had when he arrived.

XXXXXXXX

He rode straight through back to Magdalena. He grabbed his war bag and the jug of mescal from his horse and walked inside to find the Señora back at the desk. They had the same conversation he'd had with her several days prior.

"Señora, un baño? Agua caliente?"

"Si, Señor. Dentro de una hora."

He nodded and trudged up the stairs. His arm was throbbing and he wasn't sure quite how he was going to take a bath with only one useful arm. Then he remembered Melodia. His modesty gone with his sobriety, he let himself into his room. He had an hour to get so intoxicated that he didn't care what the Señorita saw or didn't see.

Yo no lo creo – I don't believe it

Tramposo – Cheater

Sin trucos – No cheating

Mentiroso – Liar

Pruébalo – Prove it

Un baño? Agua caliente? – A bath? Hot water?

Dentro de una hora – In an hour


	6. Not Enough Mescal in the World

Chapter 6 – Not Enough Mescal in the World

This time when he reached the bath room he found not Melodia Montoya, but a grizzled Mexican man of undetermined age. "Señor," the man began, "I am Pedro. I am here if you need assistance bathing."

Bart didn't know whether to be elated or disappointed. "What happened to Melodia?"

"I do not know, Señor. I only know that I am here now. You will require assistance, si?" he asked, pointing to the bandaged arm.

"Si." The first thing he needed help with was his shirt. He could get it unbuttoned but not out of what was left of the sliced-up sleeve. He was glad for the aid, and a whole lot less embarrassed than he would have been with Melodia there.

Pedro was actually a big help with the bath, and they talked a little about Bart's wound, then the conversation drifted uneasily into the gambler's state of mind. "There is something troubling you, Señor? Perhaps a woman?"

' _Well, that wasn't hard to figure out, was it?'_ the gambler thought. _'I haven't been sober since I got here.'_ "You could say that."

"Perhaps it is not as hopeless as you believe, Señor?"

Bart shook his head slowly. "No, Pedro, it's just as hopeless as I think. It's my wife."

The old man wouldn't give up. "She is in Texas, Señor?"

"She's in the ground, Pedro. My wife is dead." Bart said the words out loud for the first time.

"I am sorry, Señor. I did not know. You loved her very much?"

After a long pause, the answer came out slowly. "Very much."

"Ah, I understand. You grieve, and you bury yourself in a bottle. I, too, grieved for my Rosita when she left this earth. But we are still alive, Señor, and we must go on any way we can. When you believe that you will learn to live with the grief."

' _I don't want to live with it,_ ' thought Bart. "Sure," was the only answer he could give.

Pedro picked up the pile of clothes that Bart had left on the ground. "I will have these washed, Señor, and returned to you. Will you require anything else?"

"No, Pedro, gracias. " Bart took a coin out of his pocket and gave it to the older man. "For you."

"Gracias, Señor."

He walked slowly back through the hotel and stopped at the desk before ascending the stairs. "What happened to Melodia?"

The Señora at the front desk shrugged. "Renunció."

Bart clutched the stair railing with his right hand. Gradually and carefully he pulled himself up the steps, wondering what had caused the pretty Señorita to leave the only job she protested that she could find. _'Ah well, people come and go, don't they?'_ he thought. _'Would anybody wonder about me?'_

XXXXXXXX

Sleep was the next order of business, interspersed with more drinking. When it was finally late enough to get up and go play poker he found that he was actually hungry. He dressed and strapped on his gun belt, taking a long drink from the mescal he'd brought back from Pesqueria before heading back down the now-familiar staircase. It was time to try something new, he decided, and went past 'Cafe Americano,' on down the dirt sidewalk to 'Mama Consolata's Café.' He went in and found a seat, startled when Melodia appeared ready to take his order. "You're here," he stated obviously.

"Si, Señor Bart. I got a different job. You left Magdalena."

"I went to Pesqueria."

"Ah, for the gambling," she surmised. "And the mescal, si?"

He nodded at her gentle chastisement of his inebriated state. "And the mescal. But here – how about supper?"

"Do you know what you want?"

"Doesn't matter. Just food."

"Si, Señor. And mescal to drink?'

"Si."

He watched her walk back to the kitchen. She was really a lovely girl. He found himself hoping that the town of Magdalena would find the money to build her a school. In just a moment she was back with a glass of mescal. "I shall bring another with supper, si?"

"Si."

He sat nursing the glass of mescal while he waited for his food. This had a more uneven flavor, not as smooth as the mescal from Pesqueria and a little more bitter than what they served at Cafe Americano. It wasn't long before Melodia returned with a plateful of something or other, tortillas, and more mescal. After setting everything down on the table, she sat in the extra chair across from him. "I don't mind the company," he told her, "but is that part of the service here?"

"No, Señor Bart, it is not. I am here to ask why you waste your life drinking mescal in Mexico."

He swallowed what he'd been chewing and smiled slightly at her. "Who says I'm wastin' my life?"

"I do," she replied. "You are young, guapo, and full of life underneath the mask you wear. Why?"

He set his knife and fork down on the table and the smile turned into a frown. "Stay out of it, Melodia. You don't know what you're talkin' about."

"I know what I see. And what I see is a wasted life."

"Stay out of it." There was an edge to his voice that she ignored.

"No, I won't. There is no reason for this."

"For the last time, stay out of it."

"Nothing can be so bad that you would live like this."

That was the breaking point for him. He all but growled at her, through clenched teeth, "The woman I love is dead. I should have prevented it, or died with her. Now leave me the hell alone." He jumped to his feet and flung his napkin down on the seat, pulling money from his wallet and throwing it on the table. He picked up his hat and, settling it on his head, stalked out of the café. Back down to Cafe Americano he went, and strode straight to the bar. "Mescal, a bottle," he ordered, paid for it, and when it was delivered took the bottle and glass to a table and dropped into the chair.

For the second time today someone had told him how he should act. He poured a glass of mescal and drank it as if it were water. Then a second. His head was spinning and his heart pounding. He didn't care. He kept drinking and pouring, drinking and pouring. Within a short period of time the bottle was empty, and he ordered another. His back was turned to the door and he didn't see the pretty Señorita come to the batwing doors and peer into the cantina. Her face was sad and her eyes filled with tears. She hadn't intended to anger him, and she was sorry that she had. She should have thought before she pushed him into spitting out the awful truth that he lived with like it was some kind of poison that he carried around inside him.

She would go inside and tell him how sorry she was. No, that might make him angrier. Maybe she would just wait for him to come out. That's what she would do. She'd sit and wait. It seemed like the only way she could make things right.

That's how she came to be sitting outside when Bart finally stumbled out of the cantina, some three hours later. So drunk that he could barely hold himself erect, he didn't even see her in front of the doors. He staggered down the sidewalk, bouncing between the walls of the buildings and the porch posts, right past the hotel and down to the livery where his mare was being kept. Melodia followed him at a discreet distance and watched him walk into the livery in the almost dark night. Surely he wasn't going to try and ride in his condition and at this time of night? She hurried down the street, knowing that she needed to stop him from going anywhere right now.

Renunció – She quit.

Guapo - Handsome


	7. Death Comes Calling

Chapter 7 – Death Comes Calling

By the time Melodia reached the livery it was obvious that Bart wasn't capable of going anywhere. He'd made a half-hearted attempt to saddle his mare and given up when he couldn't even stand up long enough to get the saddle blanket on her straight. Melodia saw him sprawled on the hay next to the horse and she would have turned and left him there to sleep it off except for the fact that she heard him moan. Not sure if he was sick or injured, she went into the stall and found him conscious but incoherent. She removed his hat and set it aside and in doing so brushed his forehead with her hand. He was burning up.

She unbuckled his gun belt and slipped it off, setting it next to his hat. He opened his eyes and looked at her, but it wasn't Melodia Montoya he saw. It was Caroline Crawford Maverick. She started to get up and reach for a blanket to cover him with but he grabbed her wrist, afraid for her to leave him. "Don't go," he whispered. "I just found you."

She didn't know who he thought she was, but it must have been the woman he lost. "Alright, I'll stay," she told him, aiding his delusion. She knew he needed sleep, more than anything else; a chance to sober up, and she thought he might do just that if she didn't leave. But the gambler didn't fall asleep, rather he started babbling; sometimes coherently, sometimes not.

"Didn't get to tell you . . . . . .how I feel. Waited . . . . . too long. Now . . . . . now you . . . . can't hear me. Caroline . . . . come back. Come back to me . . . . . please stay . . . . stay with me. CAROLINE! . . . . . ." and his babbling descended into great, gulping sobs. "Don't . . . . . go . . . . . "

She laid his head in her lap and stroked his hair and face. "Shhhhh, Bart, shhhhh. I won't leave you. It's alright, I won't leave you. Shhhhh," and rocked him much the way he'd rocked Caroline as she lay dying. The sobbing continued as the pent up emotions of the last weeks burst forth like a river that ruptured the dam that restrained it.

"Didn't mean . . . . . to fall . . . . . . in love . . . . . .but I did . . . . . .don't want to live . . . . without you . . . . " and he choked and sputtered and coughed and once more she started crooning words of comfort to him as he gasped and thrashed around.

"Shhhh, shhhh, Bart. I'm here. I'm not leaving. Go to sleep. It's alright." Finally he struggled to regain control, and as he began to settle down she thought she might be able to get up and get the blanket she'd reached for earlier. Melodia waited until he was quiet and appeared to be sleeping, then slipped out from beneath him and scooted across the stable. She grabbed the blanket and returned, covering him with it as he now began to shake with the chills. She didn't know how much of this was caused by his fragile emotional condition and how much was caused by the alcohol, but she wasn't inclined to leave him here by himself in his current state.

Why had she pushed him so hard earlier? He wouldn't be like this if she didn't tell him he was wasting his life. She genuinely regretted the way she'd hounded him until he'd finally gotten so angry that he spit out the truth about his life and left to drink elsewhere. So she sat now in the stable in the dark, with the sick, drunken man's head in her lap, too concerned for his well-being to leave him alone with his demons. After a while she lay down in the hay, his head still in her lap, and fell asleep with him.

XXXXXXXX

Over and over he dreamt the same thing.

 _Caroline stood clearly in the sunlight. He whirled and fired. Bart let out a long yell "NO!" as Caroline dropped to the floor. He staggered to her side and cradled her in his arms. He kissed her tenderly and rocked her soundlessly. She was dying and he knew it; he realized it was him that had killed her. "Bart." Her voice was barely a whisper. "I love you." She lay still in his arms._

 _He put his lips up to her ear. "I love you too." And he wept._

The dream got worse every time it replayed. He was the one that turned and fired, the one that killed his beloved Caroline. No matter how many times he yelled "NO!" in his dream, no matter how many times he tried to do anything besides grab the gun, whirl, and fire, the same terrible scene played out in his mind's eye. There was no slowing it down, changing it in any way, erasing the whole thing. He cried, he screamed, he pleaded, he begged for a change; any change that would mean it hadn't happened that way, he hadn't killed the only woman he'd really and truly loved. He tried everything he knew to alter the outcome; to change the ending of the nightmare. Nothing worked.

Then it abruptly stopped, and something new started.

 _They were in a meadow, Caroline sitting on a blanket, Bart leaning against a tree nearby watching her. She looked at him and smiled, and mouthed the words "I love you." He smiled back, and she rose from the blanket and walked towards him. As soon as she got close he pulled his gun and shot her, point blank. She crumpled to the ground and he continued smiling while he stood over her, as she mouthed the words, "Why, Bart, why?"_

" _Because I love you," he told her as she died._

This dream was even more disturbing. In the first one her death was an accident; in this one it was deliberate. _'But that's what it felt like'_ his mind screamed out to him. _'Like it was all your fault. Like you pulled the trigger, instead of Lon Tenley.'_

That was his truth, the reality that he'd tried to escape for weeks. It was his fault she was dead; his fault that she'd been left alone to return to the house at just the wrong moment. He should have died, not Caroline. _'Why did you spare me, God?'_ his brain cried in frustration _'Just so I could live the rest of my life in torment and agony?'_

And then the answer came to him, so crystal clear that he was truly startled he hadn't really considered it before. There was nothing that said he had to stay on this earth and continue the suffering and torture. Nothing to keep him from taking his own life and joining Caroline in the hereafter. So irrational his feelings that no thoughts of heaven and hell could stop or dissuade him from the idea, and he wondered why he hadn't considered it before now. He fought his way out of the stupor, the drunkenness and sleep that held sway over him, and opened his eyes in the dark of night. He reached down to his gun belt, but it was gone. He turned his head slightly and saw it then, the handle of the gun gleaming in the moonlight in the hay next to him, and he reached for the Colt Peacemaker and removed it from its holster. It was easy and natural and felt like the right thing to do.

As he sat up in the barn, with the girl asleep in the hay beside him, he put the barrel in his mouth and felt the cold, hard metal against his tongue. It tasted of gunpowder and dirt. In one fluid move he drew the hammer back and pulled the trigger.


	8. The Morning After the Night Before

Chapter 8 – The Morning After the Night Before

Melodia woke to an awful noise. The sound of someone retching their insides out, and from the smell that permeated her waking breaths it wasn't the first time it had happened. She opened her eyes and raised her head quickly; from her peripheral vision she could see the gambler on his knees in the corner of the stall. The strangling sounds emanated from him. She sat up and pulled herself to her feet, hurrying over to the poor man to see if there was anything she could do to make his suffering any more bearable. If she'd known just how much he'd had to drink last night, she wouldn't have been at all surprised at his current activity.

Just as quickly she went to his saddle and pulled off the canteen, ripping off part of her petticoat to use as a rag. She wet the cloth and returned to the corner, and when he sat silently for more than thirty seconds she wiped his face and mouth with the hastily made rag. He looked at her gratefully, still pale and sweating, and signaled for the canteen, which she handed to him. He took a long mouthful and swirled it around before spitting it out; a drink of fresh water followed. "Gracias," he whispered shakily.

"Can you get up?" Melodia asked.

"Don't know," came the murmured reply. The girl stood and offered her hand to aid his rising, and after taking it slowly and carefully he got to his feet.

"Lean on me," was her next suggestion, and he did just that. She noticed that the gun belt was again slung low on his hip and wondered when that had happened. She picked up his hat on the way out of the livery and was almost blinded as they exited the shadows and made their way into the bright sunlight. They walked haltingly back towards the hotel; in addition to being as sick as he could be, the man at her side was still very drunk.

"What room?" she asked him as they started up the stairs.

"Six," was all he could get out. Once they got to the door, she looked at him plaintively. "Inside right," he told her, instinctively understanding that she needed the key to unlock it. She'd barely gotten the door open when he bolted straight for the chamber pot in the corner and vomited again. She helped him back over to the bed and poured fresh water from the pitcher on the dresser onto the corner of a towel. Again she cleaned his face and mouth, then brought him some water and the chamber pot to spit it into.

She made him sit up so she could help get his jacket off, then watched him collapse back onto the bed once his arms were free of constraint. A pitiful sounding moan escaped his lips and she felt sorry for him, even though he'd brought this on himself. It was a good thing she didn't have to work today, she thought; she couldn't leave him like this. He was just too sick.

She sat with him all that morning and afternoon, holding his head when he had to retch and wiping him down when she found him sopping wet with sweat, until he finally fell asleep in the late afternoon. She found three bottles of mescal, unopened, and gathered them up to take down to Mama's Café and trade for a pot of coffee and some eggs and tortillas. She hurried back with her booty and found him still sleeping, so she proceeded to eat half of what she'd brought back and pour herself a cup of coffee. Just as she finished eating he stirred and she returned swiftly to his bedside. His eyes were partially opened and he looked thoroughly miserable.

She brushed the hair from his forehead and asked softly, "How are you?"

"Alive," he murmured, barely audible.

"I don't think a bad hangover will kill you," she told him.

' _Ha,'_ he thought to himself, _'she doesn't know what I tried last night.'_ Good, he fully intended to leave it that way. It was stupid and wrong; a move made in drunkenness and despair and not something he intended to repeat. Why his gun had picked that exact moment to misfire he wasn't quite sure but misfire it did or he wouldn't be here talking to her. "Mescal," he said out loud, and she furrowed her brow. Surely he didn't want more to drink?

"No more," he murmured, followed quickly by his clarification. "Get rid of it. I'm done."

"For good?" she asked, hopefully.

"For good," came his reply, and she breathed a sigh of relief.

"I have some eggs and tortillas here if you can stomach food. It would be best for you to eat something."

He moaned again. "Oh, no. Coffee?"

"There is some, yes," Melodia answered, and went to pour half a cup so he wouldn't spill it. She came back with the hot beverage and set it down on the table next to the bed, then pulled the pillows up so he could sit and drink the coffee. She helped him scoot up to a better angle on the bed and put the coffee cup in his hands. Good thing it was only halfway full; he was shaking as he grasped the cup with both hands and drank from it.

She watched him carefully, just in case his body decided to expel the coffee. He was still pale and shaking, but the sweating appeared to be over. As a matter of fact, he was actually shivering, and she pulled the blanket up over him. "Gracias," he said out of habit. Even this sick he was so polite. Someone had raised this man to have manners.

Once he'd finished the coffee, he held out the cup expectantly. "Not unless you can eat something," she told him, and he reluctantly nodded his head. The eggs were still warm, as were the tortillas, and he made an attempt to eat what was put before him. When he'd finally gotten down about a third of the food, she was willing to take the plate and give him more coffee. He managed a weak smile for her.

"Why?" was his next question. "Why are you here?"

She was embarrassed but aware of the fact that she still needed to apologize for her actions yesterday. "Because I am the one that pushed until you could take no more. I am so sorry. Your woman – what happened?"

He was slow to answer, and for a moment she wondered if he'd even heard her. "She was my wife," he whispered, the tears rolling down his face. "She was shot. I should have prevented it."

She took the empty cup from him. "Can you tell me what happened?"

He looked down at the blanket covering him and began twisting the end of it. His voice was soft and mournful. "Some crook wanted her ranch. Thought if he killed me he could get it. She walked in the door at the wrong moment and he shot her."

Her voice was just as soft but sympathetic. She was missing something. "Why do you think you could have prevented it?"

"I was on my way downstairs, not payin' attention. His guns were out before I saw 'em. If I'd drawn on him - "

"He would have shot you before he shot her?"

"Yeah."

"And he would have been too busy shooting you to shoot your wife?"

"Yeah."

Now it became clear. "So you'd be the one dead?" He didn't trust his voice, so he nodded ascent. "And you would prefer that?" Another nod. "But what if he'd killed both of you?" A shrug of the shoulders this time.

"I guess . . . . . I guess that would be alright, too." Another tear slid down his cheek.

Melodia finally saw the truth in the whole episode she'd been witness to over the last few days. "How long ago did this happen?"

The answer was slow in coming. "Almost three weeks ago."

No wonder he was in so much pain. The wound was still fresh, and he'd been coping with it by trying to drink it away. "Did you . . . . I mean, did you . . . . . grieve . . . . for her when it happened?"

"Grieve?"

"Cry . . . . . break down . . . . . do anything else?"

He raised his head to look at her. Had he grieved for Caroline? Only every minute of every day. And yet . . . . . . . and yet . . . . . . . not really, not until last night. Then it had just come bursting forth from him like a volcano erupting, or a dam rupturing, or so many other things that couldn't be contained, couldn't be denied, couldn't be ignored any longer. And now his insides felt dry, and empty, as empty as his stomach. And, surprisingly, he felt better for the first time in weeks. The pain and grief and emptiness were still there, but somehow the pointed, sharp edge had been taken off of them, and he felt like he could breathe again. Maybe that's why there seemed to be no further need for the mescal, or anything to replace it.

"I . . . . . . uh, last night," he replied, awkwardly.

"That was the first time?" Melodia asked as she took one of his hands in hers.

"Yeah." Her hand was soft and warm and he held onto it tightly. "Sorry."

"Sorry?" she asked. "No sorry. Everyone must . . . . . in their own time. Seems it just took you longer than most." He let go of her hand as he yawned. "Are you . . . . . better now? Can I leave you alone?"

"I'm better," he promised. "You've been with me since last night?"

She nodded her head. "Si."

"Is there any more coffee before you go?"

She laughed and poured him another half cup. His hands were steadier than they'd been before. He seemed . . . . almost happy. At peace, at least. She set the coffee pot over on the table and kissed his forehead, then got up to leave. "Thank you," he said as her lips brushed his face.

She walked to the door and turned back to look at this gringo that had come into her life unexpectedly. "Get some sleep," she told him.

"I will. I promise."

Melodia stepped out into the hall and pulled the door closed. "Madre María, protegerlo."

Madre María, protegerlo. – Mother Mary, protect him


	9. A School for the Teacher

Chapter 9 – A School for the Teacher

Melodia went back to check on Bart the next day after she left Mama's, but there was no answer when she knocked on the door. She could only assume him to be asleep; he didn't answer her. Before leaving the hotel she stopped and asked the Señora if the gringo had left, but her former boss assured her that he was still in his room.

He was indeed; he was so sick that he'd stayed in bed for more than twenty-four hours. First chills, then fever, then every part of his body ached so bad that he simply couldn't get up. And every square inch of him was crying out for mescal, or whiskey or anything to stop the shaking that his body continued to do well into the night. When he finally woke the next morning the tremors had ceased, and the only thing he wanted was coffee and food. Fortunately, Melodia had another morning off and she was at his door again by eight o'clock, knocking softly in the hopes that he would answer this time.

A hoarse voice called 'Come in," and she found him ravenous but looking and feeling better than he had the last time she'd seen him. "I'll buy breakfast if you'll go get it," he offered, and she happily agreed. Half an hour later she returned with eggs, tortillas, grilled potatoes and chorizo and a pot of coffee. She brought a plate to him, then carried one over for herself, as well as two cups and the coffee pot. She sat on a chair that she pulled next to the bed. He ate eagerly, everything on his plate, and drank three full cups of coffee.

Some of the color had returned to his face, and although bone thin several of the consequences of not eating and living on mescal had been dispensed with. She could see the effect a full stomach had on the man; he could barely keep his eyes open. Before she lost him again to sleep she told him, "I'll come by after work tonight to see how you are."

He nodded his agreement but grabbed one of her hands as she passed by and held on to it for a minute. "Gracias," he told her through sleepy eyes. "I'll be here waiting."

When she returned that evening she brought more food and coffee. He looked better, more well-rested than she'd seen him since the first time she'd met him, and he wanted to talk. He questioned her about her family, where they were and how many brothers and sisters she had, and she filled him in with detailed answers. Her mother and father lived in Hermosillo with an older brother and two younger sisters. He occupied her with stories of his family growing up, his brother Bret and Cousin Beau and their trials and tribulations, including his childhood experiences.

They talked about schools, and her desire to teach, and how she'd moved to Magdalena when given the opportunity to take over the small school there. How she'd come here, so full of hope, only to find that the bulding had burned and the town had no money to build a new one. She would have returned to Hermosillo but with no money and no job she couldn't leave, so she'd gone about finding the only job she could at the time – working for the Señora at the hotel. After her aborted attempt at assisting Bart with his bath, the Señora had sent her up to the café to see about employment there, and she'd been hired immediately. Hopefully that would sustain her until she could save enough money to return to her family.

"But you'd rather stay here and teach?" Bart questioned.

"Si," she replied, still holding out hope that enough money could be raised to hold lessons somewhere. An idea came to him, but he wanted to give it more thought before discussing it with her.

"I have to leave, Señor Bart. I must be at the café at six o'clock. I am sorry I cannot come in the morning. I will come to visit when I get off tomorrow afternoon at two o'clock. Will that be alright with you?"

"I'm gonna be well tomorrow, Melodia, and get out of this bed. Can I come get you at two o'clock? We can go somewhere to eat and talk."

She was surprised but agreeable. "Si, I would be very pleased to see you well enough to be out of bed. I will wait for you at the café."

XXXXXXXX

He was indeed out of bed and at the café waiting for her when she got off work. He looked almost human again, better than she'd seen him for quite a while. He'd been busy all morning and couldn't wait to tell her what he had planned. He was still moving a little wobbly, but she attributed that more to three days off his feet than anything else.

They walked up the street to the last cantina in town, named 'Rosita's,' and went inside. "Order something for us," Bart requested of Melodia, and she did so, rattling off everything so fast that he burst out laughing when she was done. "Is any of that food?" he asked.

"Si, and it will be good for you," she told him lightheartedly. "You are much too thin. It is my place to do something about that." Her tone became more serious. "What did you want to discuss with me?"

He became more serious, too. "I can't go back to the states yet. No, I don't want to go back yet. I need to be away for a while; to . . . . . put it all behind me. I think . . . . . no, I know there's something I want to do here . . . . something I need to do. This town needs a school. I want to build one. Well, to get one built; I can help with the construction some. What do you think?"

She was dumbfounded; she didn't know what to say. Was he serious or was he joking with her? She searched his face carefully; why would he want to build a school? This wasn't even his country! And the longer she watched him, the doubts on his face, the concern in his eyes, the pleading in his voice, the more she believed him. Whatever his personal reasons were, he was serious. This was the answer to her prayers.

"It will take some time. Would you stay here that long?"

He nodded the answer to her question. "Si."

"But there is no money for a school!"

"I know that, Melodia. I'll pay for everything we need."

"Why, Bart?"

"I have my reasons." How could he tell her what he'd done? That he'd cheated the townspeople here and in Pesqueria, played poker using all the tricks that Pappy taught him in order to win, and taken money that he had no right to take? That he was ashamed, embarrassed, and downright miserable for having done it? That he couldn't think of any other way to give it back, and this might not make up for his mistakes but it would go a long way towards making him feel better about things? Besides, it would give him a reason to stay in Mexico – a reason he could use right now. He wasn't ready to go back to Texas or New Mexico or any other of a dozen or more places he could think of. That first prickly, extra sharp jab of pain might have dulled some, but Caroline was still with him every moment of every day. He needed to see something other than his wife's face before he could deal with anything else.

"Do you really think you can do this?" Melodia didn't want to get her hopes up just to be disappointed again. She didn't know the gringo well enough to know that he usually accomplished whatever he set out to do, with some notable exceptions. He did not intend for this to be one of them.

He smiled slightly. "Si. Tendrás tu escuela."

Tendrás tu escuela – You'll have your school


	10. Who's the Moron Now?

Chapter 10 – Who's the Moron Now?

"Where was the school that burned?" Bart asked a few minutes later.

"Outside of town – to the east about one mile," Melodia told him.

"Does the land belong to the town?" Now that he'd decided to go ahead with his ideas, his mind was racing with dozens of questions. Location was the most important, however.

"No, to Esteban Morales. He let the town build there but still owns the land."

"Is that the best place for the school?"

Melodia shook her head. "There's a piece of land at the other end of town – away from the cantina's - that would be better. It's closer to the families that have niños. But it belongs to a man no one knows. His name is Dorado Martin and he owns part of Rosita's as well. He refuses to sell or let anyone build on the land."

"Where does he live?"

She gave him an odd look, wondering why he wanted to know. "On the big hill outside of town."

"Past the stretch of land?"

"Si. What are you going to do, Bart?"

"I'm gonna go talk to him, Melodia. The worst he can do is say no."

XXXXXXXX

Bart was wrong, as he discovered when he rode out to Martin's spread the next day. There was a fence with a gate and a large sign that read **"NO TRESPASSERS ALLOWED. VIOLATORS WILL BE SHOT ON SIGHT."**

Bart opened the gate and rode in anyway. He hadn't gone twenty feet when a rifle shot barely missed him and he heard a voice yell out "CAN'T YOU READ, YOU MORON?"

Well, that was a not-so-subtle greeting. "I can read just fine, friend. I have business with Mr. Martin."

"What kind of business?" The voice was a lot quieter and much more civil.

"I want to talk to him about buying some land."

"SHE doesn't have any land for sale."

An unexpected twist. Dorado Martin was a woman. No wonder no one knew 'him.' "Would she at least be willing to discuss it without blowing my head off?"

"And just who are you?"

"Bart Maverick. Who are you?"

"Dorado Martin. Come on in. I promise not to shoot you just yet."

THAT was not reassuring, but Bart laughed and rode forward. Around the side of a large boulder he came, and Dorado revealed herself. Short and petite, with fiery red hair and startling green eyes, she couldn't have weighed as much as his saddle. And could probably fight her weight in wildcats. He tipped his hat.

"Miss Martin. Pleasure to make your acquaintance. Do you personally greet all your visitors like that?"

"Well, you might not be able to read but you have manners. And no, I just happened to be on my way home when I heard you come through the gate. Mr. Maverick, why don't you follow me up to the house and we can talk in comfort?"

"Yes, ma'am," He answered as she swung up on her buckskin. He followed her about another half-mile, down the road and up the hill, until the house loomed in front of them. It was big and impressive looking, with a wrap-around porch and a second story. He dismounted and tied the mare's reins to the hitching rail, then followed Dorado inside. She walked into a spacious main room and dropped her hat and gloves in a chair.

"Something to drink, Mr. Maverick? Whiskey? Coffee?"

"Coffee, thank you, Miss Martin."

"Dorado, please. Anything in it?" she asked while pouring a cup.

"Just black, thanks," he answered. "And call me Bart."

"Have a seat, Bart. Now, what's this about buying land from me?"

Right to the point. No dawdling involved. A good sign. "The town needs a new school. I want to get it built for them. Your land is positioned in just the right place for the people that live here. I'd like you to sell me an acre or two that we can build the school on."

"Sell it to you?"

"Yep. Then when the school's built, I'll give it to the town."

Dorado took a gulp of coffee and asked, "Why?"

"Why? Why what?"

"Why are you doing this?"

Bart had removed his hat and he fiddled with the hatband. What could he tell her that would answer her question but not lead to anymore? "Let's just say I owe it to the town of Magdalena."

"Why should it be my land, Bart? The school wasn't built here before."

"No, ma'am, it wasn't. I've spoken to the young lady that's to be the new teacher. And she explained why the location should be changed. Most of the families with children live at this end of town, and it'd be easier for their little ones to get to school if it were here rather than on Mr. Morales' land."

"How do I know that you aren't just some man out to grab my land?" Her eyes were friendly, but her voice was skeptical.

"What earthly use would I have for one acre of land?"

She thought that one over for a minute before her next question. "What do you do for a living, Bart?"

He let out a small chuckle. "As little as humanly possible, Dorado. I'm a poker player."

Her eyebrows shot up. "A gambler? Building a school for Mexican children? Aren't you a little out of your element?

"Not a gambler, Dorado. A poker player. There's a difference."

"You didn't answer my question."

"Out of my element? I guess you could say that. But Magdalena needs a school, and I'm gonna get it built."

"And all you want is an acre?"

"Well, two would be better. But that's all, yes, ma'am."

Dorado offered to pour more coffee, and Bart took it gratefully. But she still wasn't done with her questions. "Why are you in Mexico, Bart? Are you running from the law?"

He laughed at that one. Melodia had accused him of being a lawman. "No, Dorado, I'm not." His answer was so final that her curiosity was peaked.

"Ah, an affair of the heart?"

He looked down at his hat again. "Why? Does it make a difference?"

She was properly chastised. "No. No, it doesn't. I was just curious. Alright, I'll sell you two acres. On one condition."

He looked up hopefully. "Which is?"

"Have dinner with me. Tomorrow night. Here at the ranch."

"Why, Dorado?" His turn to be curious.

"Because I'm damned tired of eating dinner alone. How do you like your steak cooked?"


	11. Angel of Mercy

Chapter 11 – Angel of Mercy

The rest of the day was busy for a man determined to take a crash course in school building, and he wasn't able to see Melodia until late evening. She stopped by his room and he opened the door, pleased to find a friendly face.

"Come in, come in. Have you had dinner yet?" as he ushered her into the room.

"No, I came here as soon as I got off. Did you get to see Señor Martin?"

He reached over and grabbed his hat, then took her by the arm and walked her back out of the room. "I'll tell you all about it. Where do you want to eat?"

"Does it matter to you?"

He shook his head as they walked downstairs. "Nope, not a bit."

They walked up to Café Americano. Once seated, the Señorita that was tending bar came over with a glass of mescal and set it in front of him. He picked it up and handed it back to her. "Gracias, no. Café para los dos."

Melodia smiled. It was nice to know that Bart had been serious about not drinking anymore. "Do you want me to order?" she asked.

"Si. Everything you get us is good. And it's always different."

When the Señorita brought the coffee, Melodia ordered a variety of dishes. "Do you want to know what I ordered?" she asked teasingly.

"Nope, I'd rather be surprised. Now to your question."

"Si. Señor Martin?"

"No," he shook his head. "I didn't get to see him." Her expression changed to one of disappointment. "But I got to see her."

"Señor Martin is Señora Martin?" her face immediately brightened.

"No," he told her, "Señorita Martin. And she sold me two acres of land – but there's a catch."

"A catch? You mean like, a condition?"

"Si, a condition."

"Is it a bad thing?"

He almost laughed. "I don't think so. I have to have dinner at her home tomorrow night."

"That is all she required?"

"That's all," he answered, and watched the most beautiful expression settle on her countenance.

"You will go?"

"Of course I'll go. Then the land is ours, Melodia. The niños won't have to go so far to school."

She sat still and quiet for a few minutes, unable to believe that this was all happening. "You . . . . you are really going to build a school? For the niños? For me to teach at?"

"No, Melodia, WE are going to build a school for the niños. I'm gonna need your help with this. I have no idea what a school should look like. The only thing I ever tried to do was tear one down." He chuckled to himself, thinking about the time he and Bret and Beau had attempted to chop down the schoolhouse, to get out of going to lessons. Needless to say, it didn't work.

"My help? You want my help?"

"Of course I do. You're gonna be the teacher. You have to be happy with the school."

When they had finished eating, the conversation resumed. "How much is your salary at the café?" Bart asked.

Melodia told him; it was a pittance. "I can pay you that much to help with the school. Go in tomorrow and quit your job."

That was the most overwhelming thing she'd heard tonight. "You are certain? I don't mind being at the café."

"I'm certain," he replied. "The school needs you more than the café does." He reached for his left arm with his right hand and started massaging it where the knife cut him; he'd almost forgotten about the wound until it had begun troubling him earlier in the day. Melodia saw the action and questioned him about it.

"How did you get a knife wound?" she asked with concern after he explained what was wrong.

"Playing cards in Pesqueria."

She shook her head. "That is a dangerous place. Let me take a look when we get back to your room."

"Alright," he told her, trying to ignore the pain he felt.

They walked back to the hotel with her arm through his, chatting freely about the school. It did his heart good to see her happy and animated. The more she talked, the more certain he became that he was doing the right thing.

When they arrived at the door to his room, a realization dawned on him. He looked down at her. "You shouldn't be here," he told her. "I'm sorry, I never thought before. You shouldn't be here," he repeated.

"I don't care," she answered him. "The old women will say what they want. They already talk, I am sure. You are my friend, my savior from a life of drudgery. Let them gossip." She pushed the door open that he'd just unlocked. "Let me look at your arm." She reached up to help him with his coat and he caught her hand in his.

"I can take it off." He removed his jacket and then rolled up the sleeve of his shirt. The wound had started to redden and was slightly swollen; it was just as she feared. The beginnings of an infection.

"Who treated this?"

"One of the Señora's in Pesqueria. At the general store. Ouch." A flash of pain ran up his arm as she examined the knife wound, as well as the almost healed bullet wound.

"I am going back to my room to get something to put on this before it gets worse. I will return. You should have told me about this sooner." Melodia was out the door before he could stop her, and he took a good look at the trail the knife had left. She was right, his arm had looked better. He dropped his hat on the table and hung his jacket over the back of a chair. Tomorrow morning he could order the lumber for the framing of the school and ask Oswaldo at the general store about the best workers to hire to help clear the land. There was so much to do and he was just getting started. At least he'd had a little experience with building things, although most of it was limited to mending fences and repairing the house and barn. He sat down and started making a mental list of the things he'd need for the job, and before he realized how much time had passed he heard Melodia's knock at the door.

She hurried in as soon as he opened it, her arms full of, well . . . . . things. There was a bottle of some kind of clear liquid, bandages, tape, a small bottle of whiskey, a scissors, two different knives, some towels, and a ball of something that looked suspiciously like cotton. "You had all this in your room?" he asked curiously.

"Si." She deposited everything on the table and turned back to him. "This is going to hurt. I have to open up the wound and clean it out. That's why I brought the whiskey. For pain."

He shook his head. "No. Don't need it. Don't want it. Just do what you have to do."

"Come over to the table and sit down," Melodia told him. She washed her hands in the basin and then poured the clear liquid over them, then poured it over both knives and the scissors. "It's alcohol," she explained to Bart after seeing the confusion on his face. "My mother used it when we got hurt. It seems to help kill the infection." She came back to the table and lay all three instruments down on the clean towel she'd spread on the table. She put some of the alcohol on a piece of the cotton and wiped his arm with it. Then she picked up the smallest knife and went to work.

In just a few minutes the wound had been re-opened and cleaned with the alcohol. Bart sat in silence with teeth gritted against the stinging and pain, while Melodia drained the beginnings of the infection and poured more alcohol over everything. Then she dried his arm and re-bandaged the wound, including the semi-healed hole that Lon Tenley's bullet had made. When she was done Bart finally let out a breath and she saw the tears glistening in his eyes. "Wasn't that fun?" he asked.

"No, I'm sure it wasn't." Melodia gathered everything into a pile and wrapped it up inside another of the towels she'd brought. "I want to see that every day until it's healed." From the tone of her voice he knew she was serious. Then it softened. "So you don't have to go through that again."

"Yes, ma'am," he replied, knowing that 'si' wouldn't be a sufficient answer.

"You're sure that I should quit the café?" was her last question for the night.

"Si." He rolled his shirtsleeve back down. "Meet me at Café Americano at nine tomorrow. We can have breakfast and discuss plans. There's lots of decisions to be made and the sooner we get started the sooner the school will be built."

She reached up on tiptoes and kissed his cheek. Her lips were soft and warm, and he felt grateful that she'd come into his life. She made him feel just a little less alone right now. He closed and locked the door behind her, listening to the sound of her footsteps fading down the hall. _'Goodnight, sweet_ _school teacher,'_ he thought.

Café para los dos – Coffee for both of us


	12. Wishin' & Hopin' & Thinkin' & Plannin'

Chapter 12 – Wishin' and Hopin' and Thinkin' and Plannin'

"That's your idea of breakfast?" she asked after hearing what he'd ordered.

"Well, yeah," was the only answer he could give her.

"Manuela," she called, "come back. I want to add some things."

The Señorita returned and Melodia proceeded to order far more food than the simple eggs, tortillas and coffee that Bart had requested. When Manuela returned to the kitchen with the revised request, Bart shook his head in disbelief. "I know somebody just like you," he explained, thinking of Lily Mae Connors, his Uncle Ben's housekeeper. Lily Mae was always trying to get him to eat more. The entire Maverick clan were big eaters – with him as the lone exception. And Lily Mae was forever attempting to correct that.

"Good, then you should be used to someone insisting you eat more."

"Si." He chuckled at the thought of Melodia teaching the niños. They'd listen to her . . . . . or else. "We have to go to the general store and order the lumber this mornin' since it has to be brought in from Caborca. Which means we need a plan so we have enough wood to get started. I assume you want one large room? How many niños are there around here, anyway?"

"More than you think," she answered quickly. "Around fifteen that are of school age. There are several more that are older who might come if their familia will let them. Yes, I want one room. With a closet for storage. And a desk. Is that too much? I don't know what to ask for."

"Ask for anything you think you'll need. If we can get it done, we will. What? You're smiling."

"I never thought I could be this happy," she answered just as breakfast arrived. She looked satisfied, but Bart's eyes grew enormous at the food she'd ordered.

"I can't eat all this," he protested.

"You don't have to," she laughed. "I'll help."

For the next hour they ate and laughed and talked about the school. How big to make it, what kind of wood to use, how many windows to have, where teachers desk should be. When they were done, Bart had a better idea of just how much lumber they might need. He was hoping Oswaldo could help him determine if he'd figured correctly.

"Are you ready to go? All done?" Melodia had actually eaten more of the food than he had. But he'd had more coffee than the new school teacher.

"I can't eat anymore," she finally admitted as he paid for the meal.

"Then let's go to the store," and he held her chair for her.

Oswaldo recommended Alonzo Sequestre, who helped build Dorado Martin's house and several of the smaller shops, then sent his own son to ask Alonzo to come to the store. When Señor Sequestre arrived, he was quite agreeable to help build Bart's vision of a school and was even more willing when he found out that the gambler was paying for the supplies. Satisfied that they'd come up with a good first order to start with, Oswaldo wrote everything up and the gambler paid the bill. Alonzo agreed to meet the next morning at Dorado's ranch so they could decide exactly where to put the school and what direction it should face.

"Well, that's a good start," Bart told Melodia as they left the store. "Do you wanna see the land before tomorrow? We can ride out there and you'll have a better idea of what we're workin' with."

"Si, I would like that very much. But I don't have a horse."

"That's not a problem. Can you ride in a skirt?"

"Si."

"Let's go down to the livery," and he took her hand and led her down the street. After minor negotiations she owned a horse, which he saddled for her, then saddled his mare. He helped her up on the brown gelding; then turned to stare again at the mare's stall and the spot where he'd almost ended his life. "Thanks," he whispered softly, mounted and led the girl out into the morning sun.

XXXXXXXX

The ride to Dorado's ranch was pleasant; it was a beautiful morning with a warm breeze. Despite riding in a skirt, Melodia knew what she was doing on a horse. Today when they rode up to the entrance to the fenced-in land the **"NO TRESPASSING"** sign was gone. Bart opened the gate and the school teacher passed through, right over to a big stand of mesquite trees. She circled around for a few minutes, turning this way and that, facing one way after another, and finally seemed to settle on a spot and a direction, facing west. "Right here, it should be," Melodia informed him. "What do you think?"

He rode the mare next to her and checked out the landscape. The building would catch the late afternoon sun, keeping most of the heat from the school until it was time to go home anyway. The view out the schoolroom door would be of the big, sloping hill that ran towards the ranch house itself. "I think this works," he answered.

As they sat and inspected the vista, a horse and rider appeared at the top of that slope. As the horse approached Bart could identify the animal as the buckskin he'd seen yesterday, thus making the rider Dorado herself. She joined them with a smile on her face. "Hey Bart, you're a little early for dinner, aren't you?" She turned her attention to Melodia. "Hello, I'm Dorado Martin. You must be the school teacher."

"Si, Señorita Martin, I am Melodia Montoya. I am so thankful that you consented to sell the acreage to Señor Maverick. This will make such a handsome spot for a school, and the niños will once again have a place to go for lessons. Gracias, from the bottom of my heart."

"Will this be enough land, Miss Montoya? Kids need a lot of room to play in."

"Si, Senorita. It is quite a lovely place to be outdoors, no? I think there is more than enough room, especially with the trees so close. They will need to concentrate on their lessons and not their play. Bart, we should move the fence line to accommodate the change in Señorita Martin's property."

"That'll be the first thing we do, Dorado. We'll be back tomorrow mornin' with the man that's gonna spearhead this whole thing. I can keep you up to date on what the latest plans are. Speakin' of plans, what time am I supposed to be at your house tonight?"

"How about six o'clock?" Again, a smile from Dorado.

"Yes, ma'am. Count on it." He turned to Melodia. "Seen enough for today?" Melodia nodded and he tipped his hat to Dorado. "Until tonight."

The landowner sat on her horse and watched them ride away. _'Pretty little thing. I wonder if she's his affair of the heart?'_


	13. The Best of Intentions

Chapter 13 – The Best of Intentions

The man that presented himself at Dorado Martin's front door at six o'clock that evening looked considerably more polished than the man she'd seen on horseback that morning. He'd shaved and gotten cleaned up. And rather than the standard issue 'traveling attire' that he'd worn, with black pants and black shirt, he'd put on clothes he hadn't worn in weeks – those befitting a professional gambler. Black pants, black frock coat, pin-tucked white shirt, and black tie.

He wasn't the only one that looked different. Dorado Martin was wearing a long dress, with her hair down and falling in soft waves, and she looked less like the boss and more like the bosses daughter. He brought her flowers, though where he got them was a mystery known only to him, and she was suitably impressed, both with the man and his elegance.

"Well, Mr. Maverick, if it was your intention to make me smile, you've certainly done so," Dorado quipped as she welcomed him inside. "The flowers are lovely, thank you, though where you found them in this place I have no idea."

"Ah, that's my secret," he replied. "I couldn't come to dinner empty-handed."

"Would you like some brandy?" Dorado offered.

"No, thank you. Do you have any coffee?"

"I do," she answered. "Don't you drink?"

"Not anymore. Gave it up." There was no need for her to know how recently that had occurred.

"That's interesting. Bet you're real popular with bartenders." She half-way laughed.

"You'd be surprised. One less unhappy drunk to put up with."

She handed him a cup, full of something that smelled delightful. "I have it blended specially," she explained. He took a sip; it tasted even better than it smelled. "Sorry about the coffee yesterday – I was out of mine and we used whatever was on hand."

"This is amazing," he told her. "You'll spoil me."

' _I have a feeling it could be fun to spoil you,_ ' she thought to herself. Out loud she told him, "You're welcome anytime for coffee."

"Dorado. That's an unusual name. How'd you come by it?"

"My mother wanted to name me Doralinda. My father wanted to name me Colorado. They compromised."

"Why Colorado?"

"That's where he first met her and fell in love with her."

"Where are they now?"

She looked away from him then. The voice that answered was tinged with sadness. "They're dead. They were killed in South Dakota in an Indian attack." He could see her shoulders hunch and then she turned back, and the sadness was gone. "What about yours?"

"Momma's gone. She died when I was five. Pappy's still in Texas."

"Is he a gambler, too?"

"Poker player. That's the family occupation."

"Family? There's more Mavericks?" she asked, curiously.

"Tons and tons. My brother Bret, my cousin Beau, Pappy – he's Beauregard - and my Uncle Ben. All make their living playing poker."

"Isn't that a dangerous occupation?"

"Not if you play poker honestly, without cheating." He had a momentary pang of guilt, considering the way he'd played poker for most of the last two weeks. It passed.

"Are they all in Texas?"

"No, ma'am. Pappy, of course, and Uncle Ben. Bret's in . . . . . . I don't quite know where he is at the moment. And Cousin Beau's in England."

"England? What's he doing there?"

"Playing whatever he can get the locals to play, I would imagine. Pappy sent him to England after the war. Seems Cousin Beau made the mistake of winning a medal, and Pappy wanted to teach him a lesson. So off to England he went."

Dorado shook her head. "Seems a rather harsh punishment for doing something good."

"Not good in Pappy's book. When Bret and I went in, he told us not to win a medal or he'd beat us to death. Beau didn't take him seriously and he suffered for it."

"Sounds like your father's a very peculiar person." Dorado poured more coffee for both of them.

"Pappy is . . . . . . . Pappy, that's all I can say."

"What about your brother? Older, younger?" She took a seat on the sofa and Bart sat in a chair across from her. There was a large piano on the far side of the room, and a fireplace almost across from them.

"Older. Not by much, about a year-and-a-half. Beau's about a year older. And none of us looks like any of the others. Except Bret. He's almost an exact copy of Pappy. You have any brothers or sisters?"

"No. I have a cousin somewhere out there in the world, on my father's side, but I don't know where she is. We were close growing up, but she married and moved away. When I came down here I just lost track of her, I guess."

The gambler was quiet for a minute. It sounded all too familiar. Female cousins growing up together . . . Samantha and Caroline.

"Bart, supper's ready. Bart, are you with me?"

"Huh? Oh, sorry. You have a cook?" He stood up and offered his arm to escort Dorado to the table, set up in the back of the room.

"I do. Asunta. We've been together for quite a while. She takes good care of me. And her cooking is fabulous!" Bart pulled out Dorado's chair and seated her. _'I was right, the man has manners,'_ she thought. "The only thing that disturbed her was the way you prefer your steak."

He sighed. "Doesn't surprise me. I get no end of grief from my brother over my eatin' steak well-done. I keep tellin' him I don't want my food movin' on the plate, but he's always got somethin' smart to say."

Dorado laughed; it was a soft, pleasant sound. "Your brother seems like a character."

"To say the least."

Dinner proceeded; Asunta proved herself to be an excellent cook. Once again somebody tried to overfeed him. He was sure he couldn't eat another bite until dessert was mentioned – and it was Texas Pecan Pie. Long a favorite of Pappy's, it was Bart's favorite, too. Somehow he made room for a piece.

"That better be the end of the food," he laughed after dessert. "Or I'll explode. And that would not be a pretty sight."

"Room for more coffee?" Dorado asked.

"Yes, ma'am. Always room for more coffee." They walked back to seats in the main room. "Do you want me to start one?" he asked, pointing to the fireplace.

"That would be wonderful. Amazing how the nights are getting chilly but the days are still warm."

"It's headed towards winter. At least winter in the desert. Anyplace else and it wouldn't be a good time to build anything, much less a school."

"Speaking of the school – you never did tell me why you were building it. Is there a story behind it?"

Bart had the feeling she wasn't going to give up until she got a reason. "Nobody else is goin' to. The town doesn't have the money. So I just decided I would."

Dorado leaned over and poured him another coffee. It didn't take long for the fire to begin taking the chill off the air in the room. "Anything to do with Señorita Montoya?"

"Melodia? A little. She came here to teach – she wanted to, so badly. But the school burned, and no one had the money to rebuild."

"Is that all there is to it?"

"What are you really askin' me, Dorado?"

She blushed slightly but answered him anyway. "Alright, is she the one you were in love with?"

"Melodia's a friend. That's all."

"That doesn't answer my question."

He got up from the chair and walked over to stoke the fire. "That's the only answer you're gonna get. If you sellin' the land is contingent on my openin' up about somethin' I don't wanna talk about, then we've got a real problem."

She shook her head and looked down at her hands, which were twisting a handkerchief into knots. "No, it's not, and I'm sorry. I loved somebody once . . . . . . years ago. And it took me a long time to get past it. You just . . . . you just seemed to be in the same place. I thought maybe talking to a kindred soul would help. Sorry . . . . . I was wrong."

He sat back down, this time on the sofa next to her. "No, you weren't wrong. But I've done as much talkin' about it as I'm gonna do. There's not anything I can do about it, anyway."

She reached over and took his hand. "I'm going to have a brandy. Are you sure you don't want one? You're not playing poker tonight, are you?"

He held onto her hand for just a minute. "Maybe I will after all. Have a brandy, that is. No, I'm not playin' poker tonight. But we never discussed the price for the land . . . . . . . "


	14. Headed in the Right Direction

Chapter 14 – Headed in the Right Direction

Alonzo Sequestre was prompt; that was an encouraging quality in a man who was about to ride herd on a critical job. Bart and Melodia met him at the spot they'd picked for the school and he agreed whole-heartedly with them about their choices.

Since Bart was the one providing the money, he did the hiring. Alonzo was offered the job of running the whole build and he accepted it. The first step was to procure a small crew to clear the land and re-route the fence around the property, and Bart guaranteed the wages for the crew. When it was all settled, the gambler and the school teacher rode back to town discussing the next step in the process.

"I want to hold a town meeting," Melodia proposed, "to let everyone know what's being done, and that we will have a school. Would you be there with me?"

Bart chuckled out loud. "As long as you don't ask me to speak. That's too much attention for a gambler."

"Not a word," she promised. "You can just sit there and look proud."

"Or befuddled," his reply came back.

"I still can't believe you're doing this."

"Gotta have somethin' to keep me busy. So I don't get escorted outta town as a vagrant. Or an undesirable."

"No one would do that to you."

He thought about being a professional gambler and shook his head. "Wouldn't be the first time. And probably not the last." He was thinking of the not-too-distant future. The money he'd won playing poker in Pesqueria wouldn't last forever, and if the school was going to be completed he'd have to go somewhere else to play before too long. He refused to do any more cheating, so his skills better be sharp. The sound of Melodia's voice brought him out of his reverie.

" . . . . . . let everyone know about the meeting. We can hold it in one of the social club halls. Perhaps La Batista. It's the larger of the two. On Friday night, if they will allow it."

"Tell them they can sell mescal during the meeting and they'll probably agree to it," he advised her.

"Come to my boarding house. I want to take a look at your arm."

"Do we have to? It doesn't hurt anymore."

She nodded her head firmly. "Yes, we have to. I don't want it to get back to the way it was. It needs to heal." Melodia rode up to the front of a two-story house and dismounted. Bart followed suit. Once inside they climbed a small staircase to a room in the very back. Melodia unlocked the door and ushered him in. "Coat?" was the next thing she asked.

He obediently removed his jacket and rolled up his shirt sleeve. Unlike the day before, the knife wound was considerably less swollen and angry-looking, although it was obvious the healing process had just begun. She poured some alcohol on cotton and wiped his arm down again, then smiled because she'd caught the beginning infection in time. Without warning, there was a pounding on her door and a stern voice that demanded, "Señorita Montoya. Abra esta puerta inmmediately. Usted sabe hay hombres se les permite en su habitación."

Melodia opened the door and faced the formidable looking woman standing there. "Señora Delgado, Este es mi amigo, Bart Maverick. Él es el hombre la construcción de la escuela para los niños."

"Oh, si. Lo siento, Señor Maverick, Señorita Montoya."

Señora Delgado backed away from the door, bowing and apologizing the whole way. "Was that what I think it was?" Bart asked.

"Si. Señora Delgado is very strict. No hombres allowed in the rooms. She made an exception for you, because of the school."

Bart rolled his sleeve back down and reached for his jacket as he shook his head. "How about that? For once being named Maverick kept me out of trouble."

XXXXXXXX

By the time the gathering was over on Friday the whole town was aware of the new construction. Alonzo had his land clearing crew and Dorado Martin had met almost everyone in town. Bart felt like his face might fall off; he hadn't done that much smiling since the last time he found himself holding four aces.

"If I hear one more 'gracias' I may leave town until the darn thing's built," he told Melodia at the end of the night. "I wish you'd done that by yourself."

"But I couldn't! You deserve all the credit you are getting," she protested.

Once again he had to disagree with her. "No, I don't. And from now on, I don't wanna hear anything about it. But I'm glad that Alonzo got himself a crew. Maybe when I come back I'll go out and give 'em some help."

"Come back? Where are you going?" She sounded worried.

"Up to Nogales for a few days. I need to replenish our rapidly dwindling funds."

"That means you will be playing poker, si?"

"Si. What's that look on your face?" He saw the expression of concern in her eyes. "Don't worry, I'm comin' back."

"I will worry the entire time you are away. When are you going?"

"Probably tomorrow mornin'. I won't be away long. The money's gone a little faster than I expected, that's all. I don't wanna run us down to the last peso. That's all there is to it, I promise."

"You are sure? You would tell me if there was something wrong?"

"I would tell you if there was somethin' wrong, Melodia. You're the one that fixes everything for me, remember? But there's nothin' here for you to fix. I'm goin' to play poker, that's all."

She lowered her head so he wouldn't see the apprehension in her eyes. She had a strange feeling this trip would not go well, but she didn't want to worry him any more than she already had. "How long will you be away?"

"Oh, I'm not sure. Maybe a week. No more than that. Will you miss me?" he asked, almost playfully. He'd gotten to depend on her nearly as much as she depended on him.

"Of course. Like I would miss a mischievous niño. Stay out of trouble, si?"

Abra esta puerta inmmediately – Open this door immediately.

Usted sabe hay hombres se les permite en su habitación. – You know no men are allowed in your room.

Este es mi amigo, Bart Maverick – This is my friend, Bart Maverick

Él es el hombre la construcción de la escuela para los niños - He is the man building the school for the children.

Lo siento – So sorry.


	15. A Night in Nogales

Chapter 15 – A Night in Nogales

He was awake early the next morning and packed before the sun came up. Once again he only took the war bag and left everything else in his room. On his way out he paid for another two weeks, then went to the livery to collect his mare and head north.

He slept on the trail that night and arrived in Nogales early Sunday afternoon. He found a cheap hotel, just someplace to rest, and a small livery for the mare. Nogales had several cantinas, two full-fledged saloons, and a gambling hall. He was worn out and decided to spend some time in bed first. Sleeping on the trail usually bothered his back, and last night had been no exception. He took off his jacket, shirt, boots and gun belt, and lay with his Remington next to him in bed.

It was after eight o'clock when he finally woke; just enough time to get cleaned up and changed out of traveling clothes. When he left his room around nine o'clock he was well-rested and well-dressed. He walked down to the first saloon, 'Diamond Lil's", and found a game that looked promising. There was an empty chair. "Gentlemen, may I join you?"

He was welcomed in and didn't start off well, losing the first three hands. The thought of palming a card crossed his mind, but he was determined not to. He'd promised himself no more cheating and he was going to honor that promise. Slowly the feel of the cards came back to him, and the games started going his way. He observed the other players and effortlessly picked up on their tells, all except for the man playing directly opposite him. Maxwell Auebechon was a cardsharp, which was obvious from the very beginning. Bart watched him shuffle and deal, keeping an eye open for something out of the ordinary, but so far he hadn't spotted anything.

They played one hand after another, Bart winning more than losing. Auebechon won his fair share of games, most of them the ones that Bart dropped out of. Finally Maverick hit a hot streak and won seven or eight hands in a row, with Auebechon becoming more and more disgruntled with every loss. They played all night, until finally it was one gambler against the other, with one drinking whiskey and the other coffee. It was Bart's night, though, and when he drew a pair of aces and a pair of tens on his first four cards he waited patiently for the fifth card. Whatever he'd drawn pleased the cardsharp as well; a slight smile finally creased his lips. The bidding climbed higher and higher, and when Bart received his fifth card it was another ace. "Four hundred," Auebechon bid.

"I'll see your four hundred and raise you another four," was Bart's counter-bid.

"There's your four. Cards?" Auebechon asked.

"None."

The cardsharp froze. That was almost the kiss of death. "Dealer takes one," he finally said and dealt himself one card. The tiniest smile returned to crease his face. "Raise you three more."

"And three on top of that."

Auebechon hesitated, deciding how to respond. At last he threw money on the table. "Call."

Bart laid down the full house. "Aces full."

The cardsharp threw his cards down. "Damn."

"Pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Auebechon. Maybe we'll we meet again before I leave Nogales."

Auebechon growled something that sounded like "I hope not," as Bart picked up his winnings. He felt good, having outplayed his opponent rather than out-cheating him, and went looking for someplace to have breakfast. If this was a precursor to his stay in Nogales, things were looking tantalizing.

XXXXXXXX

Monday afternoon found Bart sitting in another tense game at 'Fuzzy McGee's.' He was playing a tableful of businessmen, and the cards had kept him running for his life ever since he sat down. There was the local undertaker, the barber, the American mayor of Nogales, Arizona, and the Mexican mayor of Nogales, Sonora. Lady Luck, as usual, was being fickle, and Bart's hands were up and down.

He was down almost two thousand dollars when his favorite lady finally recognized him and decided to smile. It was a long, hard fight to get back to even, but get back there he did, with the promise of the game continuing that evening after all the otherwise employed men returned from supper. Eight o'clock was the time agreed upon for the resumption of the game, and Bart once again headed back to his hotel for some rest.

He hadn't been in his room more than ten minutes; he was just getting ready to lie down on the bed when someone rattled the doorknob in an attempt to enter. He pulled his gun and stood inside the door for a minute, waiting to see if it happened again. There was no further movement of the knob and not a sound outside. He unlocked the door and yanked it open; there was no one in the hall.

That was the end of his attempt at catching some sleep; he opted to read instead and pulled out his latest interest, 'Twenty-Thousand Leagues Under the Sea' by Jules Verne. It had been weeks since he'd picked up the book; after Caroline had died, he couldn't concentrate and hadn't even attempted to read anything more involving than one or the other of the pulp periodicals he picked up now and then. Most of those were laughable, some Eastern writers distorted view of life in the 'wild' west.

The afternoon passed pleasantly enough, dozing and reading, with no further attempts made to open his door. Contemplating the distinct possibility of a long night of poker playing, he put his boots back on around six o'clock and went downstairs to find someplace suitable to eat supper. The front desk clerk told him about a café down the street, and he headed that way. He'd ordered tonight's special and coffee, and the Señorita had just brought his food when Maxwell Auebechon walked in. The cardsharp saw him and wandered over. "Well, Maverick, refueling before poker tonight?"

Bart looked at him and nodded, not inclined to interrupt supper for someone he didn't know very well and didn't intend to become any more familiar with. "You?" was his only response.

"Same idea," came Auebechon's rejoinder. "Going to 'Lil's' tonight to play?"

"Nope."

"I'll let you finish your meal," and the cardsharp found his own table. There was something about the man that Bart just didn't like. He suspected Auebechon of cheating but was less inclined to hold that against him after his own bout with the wrong side of the cards. Bart left the café as soon as he finished his supper, not inclined to linger and give Maxwell a chance to strike up another attempted conversation. He still had about an hour before the agreed upon time to reconvene at 'Fuzzy's' but he headed that way anyway, found himself a game and sat in. Nothing on the scale of the hands he'd played earlier, but the cards seemed more inclined to be kind to him.

He played for almost an hour and a half, all of the men in his group returning to the saloon late, and won two or three hundred dollars while waiting for their return. One by one they entered; the Mexican Mayor, Alfredo Hernandez, being the last to arrive. "My friends, are we all ready to resume this frustrating and alluring game?" Hernandez asked.

"KInda like romancing beautiful women, isn't it?" Amos Bender, the barber, inquired. "Wait, I'm askin' the wrong people. Maverick, kinda like romancing beautiful women, ain't it?"

Bart laughed a little. "Wouldn't know, Amos. Haven't done any of that in quite a while."

Burt Teeter raised his eyebrows. He was the undertaker. "Now why wouldn't a young, good-lookin' fella like you have a string a lady friends at his beck and call?"

Calvin Specter, the mayor in Arizona, murmured, "Maybe he's married."

Hernandez, again. "Is that it, Seńor Maverick? Do you have a wife waiting somewhere for you?"

"Not anymore, Mr. Mayor."

"Ah, she show you the door, boy?" Bender asked.

Bart paused for a minute before answering. "I guess you could say that, gentlemen. She died."

His voice was low and steady, and as soon as the words were out of his mouth there were several murmurs of "Oh, sorry," and "Didn't mean to offend you, son," accompanied by four pairs of sympathetic looks. Calvin Specter seemed to pick up on the truth sooner than the others. "It happened recently, didn't it?"

The gambler nodded, not willing to trust his voice.

"Well, I'm sure you'll have all the ladies chasin' you in no time," Teeter offered.

"Of course ya will, son," Amos threw his opinion in.

"Cards, gentlemen? Are we ready?" Bart asked.

"Oh, yeah."

"Sure."

"Let's start."

And the game was once again off and running. The gambler's luck held. It didn't seem to matter who was dealing, he was either dealt a winning hand to start or drew exactly what he needed, almost as if the lady was trying to make up for ignoring him earlier. The more he won, the more conservatively everyone played. It was a pleasant night, with decent poker players and good coffee, and as the night came to an end all agreed to meet again tomorrow at the same time. Bart found himself almost thirty-five hundred dollars ahead. Not a bad end to a night that started out on a shaky note. Another game like this and he could head back to Magdalena ahead of schedule. Just one more night.


	16. The Fickle Lady

Chapter 16 – The Fickle Lady

He slept poorly, plagued by dreams of Caroline. By three o'clock that afternoon he'd given up trying and got out of bed to stay, first getting washed up for the night ahead and then once again going to find something to eat. He visited one of the cantinas on the south side of town, a place with no name on the windows but a delightful smell coming through the doors. There he sat in on a poker game that was fast and furious and played with three vaqueros who had just spent two months on a cattle drive to Mexico City and were feeling no pain. They were expert poker players and it was a challenge to beat them, but beat them he did after a brief struggle.

By the time he had to leave for 'Fuzzy's' he was in an almost jovial mood, so it was a jolt to walk through the door at his destination and come face to face with Maxwell Auebechon. Worse than that, he was playing five-card stud with Amos Bender. "Come on over, Bart, I'm early. Do you know Mr. Auebechon? I've asked him to join us tonight, hope you don't mind."

"Auebechon."

"Maverick."

Bart turned back to Amos and smiled. "Of course not, Amos." Bart took a seat and watched Auebechon deal a hand of stud while declining to participate in it. He was almost sure he saw Maxwell deal a card off the bottom of the deck. He had to be doubly on guard tonight, not only paying close attention to his cards but to Maxwell Auebechon as well.

The missing three men appeared one at a time until all six chairs around the table were filled. They started off with Amos dealing, but Lady Luck seemed to still be sitting in Bart's corner. It wasn't easy keeping track of everyone's playing as well as an eye on Auebechon, but he managed. And kept winning.

Even though he didn't trust the cardsharp and watched him carefully, he couldn't spot anything being done out of the ordinary. Either Auebechon was awfully good or he was awfully wrong.

The night proceeded the way the two previous evenings had, with Bart again emerging as the games winner. Tonight Maxwell didn't let anything bother him and seemed content to play and lose to Bart on a regular basis. The only thing even remotely different about his poker game was the restrained and conservative betting he participated in. Unwilling to take chances of any kind, Auebechon appeared to be biding his time; waiting for something to happen.

It was almost five o'clock in the morning when Calvin Specter finally broke things up. "Got a meeting this morning with the Texas State Police that I can't be late for."

"Don't you mean the Texas Rangers?" Burt Teeter asked.

"No. They've been, uh, reconstituted with a new name." The mayor gave an odd laugh. "It was a whole lot easier when they were just the Rangers. Anyway, I have to say good-night, gentlemen. Good to have you play with us, Maxwell. Hope to see you again, Bart. Boys."

"Me, too, I'm afraid, Señors. Later in the week, perhaps?" and Mayor Hernandez followed Mayor Specter out.

Amos Bender yawned. "Add me to the list. I need some sleep." He shook his head. "Bart, I don't know what to say. I've never played against anyone that has the poker instinct you have. You did the right thing by playin' cards for a livin'. Good luck with that matter we talked about last night."

"Thanks, Amos. It's been a real pleasure for me, too. Good-night."

The rest of the group disbursed, Maverick and Auebechon simply nodding to each other as they both left the table and the saloon. Maxwell walked up the street, Bart down. He stopped to light a cigar and smoked it as he made his way back to the hotel. He hadn't counted it, but from the look of things he'd made somewhere near another four thousand dollars. If that was accurate, he had more than enough money to pay for the school and all the help that Alonzo would need.

He was tired, mostly due to the restless night he'd had, and was frankly looking forward to getting better sleep than last night. He trudged rather wearily up the stairs to his room and paused only long enough to unlock the door. Opening it, he fumbled to turn on the kerosene lamp and stopped, sensing something not quite right. Just as he reached for his gun, he felt the crack of a pistol butt on the back of his head, and he fought to stay conscious and on his feet. He reached out to grab whatever he could get his hands on and again the gun butt crashed across his skull, and he dropped to the floor with a pain pounding in his head that felt like someone had split it wide open. That was the last sensation he would have for a while.

XXXXXXXX

It was bright . . . . much too bright, and he attempted to shield his eyes from the glare. There was terrible pain in his head and trying to move his hand to protect his eyes only added to that pain. He closed his eyelids once again, but the ache never dimmed. Both sides of his skull were in agony; he realized why slowly as being hit over the head twice with a gun butt made its way to the forefront of his mind. He moved his hand to tenderly touch the back of his neck, and he noticeably winced as his fingers made contact with not one but two separate knots, one on each side.

He moaned and tried to roll over, but that act was too painful and he lay still and silent for a minute. He hadn't imagined it, someone was waiting for him in the room last night. In a split second, he remembered his poker winnings and reached inside his coat for his wallet. It wasn't there. He forced his eyes open and flinched from the light. Slowly he focused and saw his wallet, flat and empty, laying on the floor about three feet away. Every cent that he'd won playing poker was gone and he grabbed frantically inside his coat, feeling around for the spot where he kept a one-thousand dollar bill pinned. He found the pin, but there was nothing underneath it. His head moved too quickly and the pain skittered through him like a cat chasing a mouse. He moaned again but managed to roll over and get on his hands and knees. From there he pulled himself up on the bed, where he once again collapsed from the intensity of the massive pounding in his skull. He lay there for long minutes, fervently hoping that the agony in his head would begin to dull but not feeling any change.

He had no idea what he was going to do now. He'd report the robbery to the marshal, of course, but he harbored no hope of ever getting the money back. The theft was committed in the dark by an unknown and unidentifiable party. Right now all he could do was lay there in pain and wait for death, which, of course, he knew wasn't coming. He had no money and no food, and a town waiting fifty miles away from him that expected a school to be built. A school that he'd promised them.

He closed his eyes again and turned on his side, trying to figure a way out of the mess he found himself in. Finally his mind started working. If he packed up and checked out of the hotel now, he could get enough money refunded for the room to buy the food he needed to get to Magdalena. His stomach was growling almost as loudly as his head was throbbing, and that was the only course of action he could think of. He had a day and a half of riding in which to determine how to handle the situation in Magdalena.

For one split-second he considered fleeing back across the border into New Mexico, and just as quickly rejected the idea. He'd promised Melodia a school, and no matter what it took he was going to build her one. Even if he had to do it with his own two hands.


	17. A Different Plan

Chapter 17 – A Different Plan

By the time he got back to Magdalena he was tired, dirty, hungry, and despondent. And more determined than ever to build the school.

He took the mare straight down to the livery. He could always move in here with her if he had to, just like he had in Pesqueria. He hoped it wouldn't come to that, but if that's what it took, that's what he would do. He wasn't sure how he'd get a stake to play poker again, but he'd figure out a way. His immediate concern was the conversation he was going to have with Melodia.

The fortuitous rent payment before leaving Magdalena had bought him another eight days at the hotel, and that's where he headed now. Once more he wearily climbed the stairs to room six and crashed on the bed as soon as he got inside. The only thing he bothered to remove was his hat, and it wasn't long before he was asleep.

Four or five hours later he woke to the sound of soft knocking on the door, and he knew it was the school teacher. "Coming," he called as he got out of bed, and within seconds she was inside his room, with her arms wrapped around his neck, babbling rapidly in Spanish. When he didn't answer, she switched to English.

"Are you alright?" she asked plaintively, worried at his lack of response. She let go of his neck, and saw him wince as she did so; the neck was still sore, and she held him at arm's length to take a good look at him. "What's wrong? What happened?"

He would have shaken his head but for the pain. "Everything's wrong. I'm broke." As if to emphasize his despair, his stomach chose to growl just then. Loudly.

"I can fix that," she stated, and grabbed his hand, pulling him out the door. He fumbled for his key and locked it, although he had no idea why anyone would want to steal his clothes. Down the stairs and up the street to Cantina Americana, where she proceeded to order food and coffee, which he appeared in desperate need of. Once the first few sips were out of the way she asked him again, "What happened?"

He explained the entire trip, from the hopeful beginning through the desperate end, including the pitiful attempt to find a way out of the mess he'd had a hand in creating. "Thank God Alonzo's been paid and the property's been bought. I'm gonna see if we can finish clearin' the land and then I'll help build the school. That's the only way out of this I can see. Don't know what I'm gonna do for money. And I promised to pay you, too." He hung his head, as much as he could, given the two lumps on the back of it, and apologized again. "I'm so sorry, Melodia. It's gonna take a while, but I'll get it done."

She reached over and covered his hand with one of hers. "It's not your fault, Bart. You did nothing wrong. And as for the money – I have some saved. I was going back to Hermosillo, remember? Maybe it's enough to give you a 'stake' at poker?"

"I can't use your money. You need to keep that." Despite the pain, he shook his head.

"And how will you eat? And where will you sleep? What I have is yours, Bart. I believe in you, even if you don't believe in yourself right now."

He raised his head and watched her eyes. He saw himself reflected there, and the faith and trust she had in him. He didn't know what he'd done to deserve her friendship and support, but he was glad he had both. "How much do you have?"

"Almost one-hundred dollars," she told him, proud that she'd been able to save that much money. He wasn't about to explain to her that in the world he lived in, one-hundred dollars was a mere pittance. But if he was exceedingly careful, it might be enough to get started.

"Good. I can use that tonight. Right now I should go talk to Alonzo and see what we can accomplish without help."

"I will go back to 'Mama Consolata's' and ask for my job back. That will help, also."

He shook his head again. "I wish you wouldn't."

"I want to be part of this. What happened is partly my fault. I knew that something was going to go wrong and I didn't stop you from leaving."

"How could you know that?" he asked. He couldn't believe she was trying to take some of the blame for the disaster in Nogales.

She withdrew her hand from his. "Go talk to Alonzo. See what can be done." She laughed for a moment. "Then have a bath drawn and change clothes. You smell like you slept with your horse again."

He stood up from the table, bending over before he left to kiss her cheek. "Gracias, Melodia. Tengo la suerte de que estás por mi amigo."

She gave him a dazzling smile. "As am I."

XXXXXXXX

He had to retell the whole story to Alonzo. The builder sat and listened to the tale in silence, absorbing everything that he heard. When there was no more to say he looked at the gambler with sad, sympathetic eyes.

"Where were you raised?" Alonzo asked softly.

Startled, Bart answered him anyway. "On a cattle ranch. Sort of. A sort of cattle ranch."

"Then you know how to repair things?"

"You mean like fences and roofs and walls?"

"Si, just like that."

The gambler nodded. His head still hurt, but that didn't stop him. "Si."

Alonzo brightened. "And you are willing to work with me, and work hard?"

Bart sighed. Not the greatest idea he'd ever heard, but a promise was a promise. "Si."

A smile appeared on Sequestre's face. "Then we can build the school. You and me, Señor Bart. It will take longer, and it will be very hard work. But it can be done. Are you willing?"

He didn't hesitate. "Si, Alonzo. When do we start?"

"Tomorrow morning. At dawn."

"At the site?"

"Si."

XXXXXXXX

Once again the knock on the door was Melodia's. Once again he called "Come in" as he buttoned the last button on his shirt and then smiled at her.

"I brought the money," she told him seriously. She walked to where he stood and put it in his hands. "I know you will do your very best. And you look much better," she added and saw him brighten considerably. "Now, what did Alonzo have to say?"

"We start tomorrow at dawn. That doesn't give me much time, but I should be able to do some good tonight."

"But you should sleep tonight!" she protested.

"I should play poker tonight," he corrected her. "We need money more than I need sleep."

She sighed. "I already know well enough not to argue with you. But you must eat first."

"I won't deny that. There won't be any time in the morning."

"Then let us go to Mama's for supper. I start back to work in the morning, also. We will be two exhausted hombres tomorrow."

"Si," he agreed with her, and they laughed.

Tengo la suerte de que estás por mi amigo – I am fortunate that you're my friend.


	18. To Sleep, Perchance

Chapter 18 – To Sleep, Perchance

It takes just as good a poker hand to win a twenty-five dollar pot as it does a twenty-five hundred dollar pot. Sometimes better, as Bart was remembering the hard way. He'd gone to the cantina to start small and boy, start small he did. The first pot he won was worth about twelve dollars. The next one, nine. After that they got progressively bigger until at last the one for twenty-five dollars. This was getting him nowhere fast. He had to play conservatively, bet conservatively, and win conservatively. He was still in the Lady's good graces, as win he did, hand after hand. By the end of the night he had almost two hundred dollars in his pocket and hurried back to his room to change clothes and get ready to work on the new school.

One thing he'd spent money on the previous afternoon was a pair of gloves, heavy and durable, the kind that would withstand the bruising and battering his hands were about to have inflicted on them. He tucked those in his belt and grabbed his hat, then was off to the livery to saddle the mare. He got to the property and found Alonzo already there, and he was pleased to see that the re-routing of the fencing had commenced. "Hey, Alonzo. Buenos Dias. Where do you want me to start?"

"Ever built a fence?" Alonzo grinned at him.

"Too many to count."

Alonzo nodded. "I've got everything laid out where it goes. Start at either end and build."

And that's just what Bart did. It was hard, hot, demanding work; the only time they stopped was when Alonzo's wife Imelda brought them lunch and water. They worked all day and were glad for the cool breeze that blew; Bart hadn't worked that hard in years. At the end of the day the re-routed fence was almost done, and both men were worn out.

They rode back to town together, grateful for what they'd been able to accomplish in one day. This was just the beginning, though, and both knew it. Alonzo went home; Bart went back to his hotel and collapsed on the bed. He was asleep in mere seconds and didn't wake until he heard a persistent knocking on his door. He almost fell on the floor getting up from the bed and opened it bleary-eyed and in a mental fog. It was Melodia, and she carried something that smelled like food. He was almost too exhausted to care.

"I thought you might be too tired to go out, so I brought food here. Can we eat?"

"We? Are you joining me?" He blinked once or twice, trying to wake up.

"I am. Unless you object?"

"No, no, no. I would never object. I just don't know if I can stay awake long enough to eat."

"You aren't going to try and play poker tonight, are you?"

"Not anymore. I'd fall asleep in the middle of a deal. By the way, let me give you your hundred dollars back." He fumbled in his wallet but finally retrieved the one-hundred dollars she'd given him the day before.

"But I gave this to you as a poker stake," she protested.

"I know. I used it and made another hundred last night. I want you to take yours back before anything can happen to it."

"Are you afraid of losing it?" she asked him, laughingly.

"Nope. I'm afraid somebody's gonna steal it."

Melodia had brought supper with her, and it smelled fantastic. His stomach won out over his weary bones and he followed the smell to the table and sat down. She had everything necessary to eat – plates full of food, utensils, and a pot of coffee and cups. He picked up a fork and dug in. "This is wonderful," he told her between bites. "But this must cost money. You don't have to feed me."

She chuckled at that remark. "Ah, but I do have to feed you. Remember how hungry you were yesterday? And how much food did Imelda bring out for lunch? Besides, this would just go to waste if I left it at Mama's."

"You're an angel," he told her. "And you're right, Imelda brought a small lunch. I was grateful she included me. Working all day in the sun – not what a gambler normally does."

"Si, it will be hard work. You have not done this before?"

"Melodia, darlin', I haven't picked up anything heavier than a deck of cards for a long time. Now, I can do other things. I can boss a cattle drive; I can run a ranch; I can even do some cookin'. But build a school? No. This is a brand new experience."

"You cannot do this and play poker, too. You must sleep."

"And I will. Later. Poker's gotta wait a few days." No sooner had he said that than he yawned. Sleep was beginning to win again.

"Then I will take what's left and go." She looked over at him and saw that his eyes were closed. She stood up and he opened them hurriedly.

"I'm sorry. I need to sleep. But I should take you back to your boardin' house. I don't like you wanderin' around town at night by yourself."

"I am perfectly fine alone."

He shook his head. "No. You're not. Come on, I'll put my boots on and walk you home." He started to stand up and staggered. His body felt like somebody had run over him with a stagecoach.

"You can't even stand. I will be fine. Just get the door for me and I will be gone." She'd piled the empty dishes and everything else back into the basket she'd brought in and was ready to leave.

He started to protest and she put her fingers to his lips. "Shhhh, no arguing. You need to sleep."

"You're still an angel," he told her, kissing her fingers before he kissed the back of her hand. "Are you working tomorrow?"

"Si. In the afternoon."

"I'll come get you when I'm done tomorrow."

"Alright, good-night," and she reached up on tiptoe and kissed him on the cheek before going out the door. He locked it and lay down on the bed, drifting back to sleep as soon as his eyes were closed. For once he didn't dream of Caroline.


	19. The Bad Penny

Chapter 19 – The Bad Penny

Day Two of what Bart came to think of as his own personal penance for not abiding by the Laws of Poker According to Beauregard Maverick was worse than Day One. The work was more grueling; he hadn't had enough sleep, and his body was in the midst of rebellion at the overwhelming amount of pain it was in.

None of that proved to be a deterrent, however, and when sunrise came, Bart and Alonzo were once again working on the re-routed fence for Dorado Martin's property. The job was completed by the time the sun was rising in the sky and both decided to rest for a few minutes before they started clearing the land they intended to build on. They picked a Mesquite tree to sit under and broke out the canteens. Finally the gambler asked, "I know why I'm here, Alonzo. What about you?"

"For a very personal reason, Señor Bart."

It took Bart a minute to catch on. "Oh, you mean – is Imelda - ?"

"Si," the builder answered shyly. "The niño must have a school to learn in."

"Is this your first?"

"Si." A proud smile accompanied the reply.

"Congratulations," Bart offered.

"Gracias, Señor Bart. You have none of your own?"

"None that I know of," Bart answered, then emitted a short laugh.

"Do you want niños?"

Maverick thought about it for a minute. It was terrifying, but enticing. "Yeah, I think so."

"You must first have a wife, si?"

Another short laugh, then a serious answer. "I had one a those."

"Had?" Alonzo questioned.

"She died."

"Ah." They sat in silence while both men took drinks from their canteens. "Señorita Montoya would make a fine wife."

"I'm sure she would," came the reply to the unanswered question. "But not for me. Besides, we're just friends."

"Friends?"

"Si. Amigos, compadres, friends."

Alonzo let loose with a hearty laugh. "I am sorry, is that what you believe? You have not looked at the Señorita carefully, have you? The way she watches you when you are not looking? The admiration in her eyes? The longing that comes from her soul? The look is amor, nothing less. Oh yes, I am sure of it. The Señorita is in love with you."

Bart shook his head, stunned at Alonzo's revelation. "But I've done nothing to encourage it."

"It is not necessary that you encourage it. It is there by itself. And if you do not return her feelings, she will never let you know that she loves you."

"Alonzo, I can't. I can't love her. I still love Caroline. Melodia is a sweet girl, but . . . . . . "

Sequestre nodded his head in understanding. "If you do not tell her that you know, she will certainly not acknowledge her love. That may be the kindest thing of all. She will never know you can not love her."

"Is that . . . . . is that the best thing? Are you sure?"

"Si. Mexican women are proud. She will recover and find another to love." Silence descended again. Then, finally, Alonzo's voice. "You can do this? You can leave her with her pride?"

A long pause. It broke his heart, to think about hurting his sweet-tempered friend. "Si. I can do this."

XXXXXXXX

They worked until almost sundown, making good progress in clearing the land so they could lay a foundation for the school. It was hard, dirty work, and they were far more tired today than they'd even thought about being yesterday. Again the two men road back to town together and, despite his exhaustion, Bart did his best to clean up and be presentable when he went to pick up Melodia from the cantina.

She looked as tired as he felt. Her smile brightened when she saw him, and he knew that no matter what happened, she would always be his friend. "Oh my," she told him, "it was as difficult as yesterday?"

"Oh, no," he answered, "it was worse. But Dorado's fence is done, and we started clearing everything off the land. We've made great progress, much more than I expected for only two of us. And I have news to share."

"It is good news, no?"

"It is good news, si. Imelda and Alonzo are going to be parents."

"That is wonderful news! I am so happy for them." Her voice was sincere and joyful, and Bart heard no envy in it at all. Perhaps Alonzo was wrong?

"Do you wish it was you, Melodia?"

She shook her head. "Me? No, I love the niños, but I am not ready to be Mamacita. I have yet to find the man I wish to marry."

They walked down the sidewalk, back to Cantina Americano. He held the door open for her and followed her in. He wasn't paying any attention to the people sitting inside and was startled when a familiar voice called, "Hey, Maverick. So this is where you ran off to?" It was Maxwell Auebechon.

He nodded his head in acknowledgment and seated Melodia at a table before taking a few more steps over to where Auebechon sat. "I didn't do any running off, Auebechon. I was robbed after I left the poker game in Nogales. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"

"Really? Robbed? Your poker playing friends just assumed you'd won enough of their money and skipped town. Quite frankly, that's what I thought, too. When did it happen?"

"As soon as I went back to my hotel room. Took everything I had. Over fifteen thousand dollars."

Auebechon's eyebrows shot up. "Fifteen thousand dollars? Wow." He whistled. Bart had deliberately overstated the amount of money he lost that night. If Auebechon was in on the robbery, as Bart suspected, that would certainly cause some dissension with his partner.

"If you'll excuse me, Maxwell, I have company to return to."

The cardsharp smiled. "Ah, yes, the pretty Señorita. Well, have a lovely evening. Perhaps I will see you in a poker game?"

"Not unless you stay in town until Saturday." Since Alonzo would not work on Sunday, Bart knew he could safely play poker Saturday night and still get some sleep when he was done. Now to see if Auebechon took the bait.

"A friend of yours?" Melodia asked when he returned to the table.

"No," the gambler answered. "Not a friend at all. Just somebody that plays poker."


	20. Brickwork

Chapter 20 – Brickwork

The next two days hurried past and brought less pain each day, as his body began to get used to the physical effort that building required. The land was cleared and the foundation laid, using native rock and stone.

The order from Caborca arrived on Friday and he and Alonzo went into town to pick up the supplies and lumber. It was everything they needed to build the frame for the schoolhouse. Bart breathed a sigh of relief, remembering that the order was already paid for. Once the frame was up, however, they were going to need cash to buy adobe bricks, and Bart knew he had to do well enough at poker this weekend to finance the purchase.

He and Alonzo worked on cutting the lumber into the pieces they needed and got the frame started by Friday evening. All day Saturday they continued the work, with many of the townspeople coming out to help with the construction. All who stopped by were surprised that the gringo had kept his word and helped with the building himself. By the time sunset streaked the sky with its brilliant pinks and oranges the framing was finished. Alonzo smiled as they put away the tools for the evening.

"You know, Señor Bart, when you first told me we would build this school, I laughed to myself. I said to Imelda, "The gringo will not be of much help and will not last long." I am happy to say that I was wrong. You are a much better worker than you lead people to think. I am pleased that it is you with me building this school. It will stand for many years and we will be proud to know we built it."

Bart was grateful for Alonzo's remarks. Much as he would never admit it out loud, it felt good to work and sweat and do something with his hands other than deal cards. Pappy and Bret might laugh at him for getting involved in such a project, but it had proved beneficial for him. He didn't have to think about what he'd lost, and he slept without the nightmares that plagued him after Caroline's murder.

"Gracias, mi amigo. Let's go back to town, eh? I need to play poker and win tonight to pay for that adobe."

"Si, you will play and I will pray!" And both men burst into laughter. They rode back to town together again, Alonzo headed to his house and Bart to his hotel. As he came in the front door the Señora told him the bath water he ordered for tonight was almost ready, and he climbed the stairs to room six. In less than an hour he bathed, shaved, changed clothes, and met Melodia at the Cantina. He was going to play poker at one of the social clubs; he needed to make money in a hurry. A dozen or more drovers from a cattle drive had arrived in town the night before and descended on the 'Lady from Madrid Social Hall'.

Melodia hadn't worked today and look relaxed and refreshed; Bart hoped he would be in that same state come Monday morning. "You seem happy," Bart told her as they ate supper.

"I am. I worked on the first lesson that I want to use when the school is open. Oh, Bart, I am so excited. And so grateful to you for giving me the chance to teach the niños. I will never, ever forget you and your generous heart."

"I'm not as generous as you think, Melodia."

"I will listen to none of that. You are generous and kind, and I am so sorry that I ever thought any differently."

"I didn't give you any reason to think I was anything but a drunken gringo."

She smiled and shook her head. "And even like that you were a gentleman."

He took a drink of coffee and then told her, "Just say a prayer that I can find a game and win tonight."

"I have no doubt that you will. You are doing something selfless."

' _To make up for what I did that was so selfish,'_ he thought.

XXXXXXXX

He hadn't been inside either of the social clubs before now, and the 'Lady from Madrid' was nothing more than a raucous saloon, only much larger. With plenty of girls; young, pretty Senorita's scantily clad, much to the pleasure of the drovers. They had roulette and faro at one end of the hall; the other contained a bar and poker tables. And Maxwell Auebechon.

Bart found a seat at a table as far away from Auebechon as possible. He started slowly at first, falling back into his pattern of playing and betting conservatively, and the winning ways followed. About two hundred dollars ahead, around midnight the game broke up and Bart had only one place to go – Auebechon's table. "Gentlemen – may I join you?"

There were no objections, and Bart took the empty seat. A few minutes later Auebechon spoke up. "Watch out, fellas, this man tends to win every game he plays." The implication was clear.

Bart couldn't help himself. "At least I don't have you bushwhacked in your room after losing to you all night." And the war was on.

No one but the two gamblers knew what was being discussed. Bart had been accused of cheating to win; Maxwell of being in on the robbery in Bart's hotel room. Neither had any proof, but both were certain they were right.

Auebechon played better tonight . . . . . as if the accusation had sharpened both his attention and his skills. Bart started off losing and he finally had one of the saloon girls bring him coffee, while his opponents drank whiskey and mescal. The coffee settled his nerves, and his poker playing fell into a rhythm. He began to win steadily and it mattered not one whit who was dealing. Or making remarks that implied he was cheating.

By dawn on Sunday morning he was over a thousand dollars ahead. Not anywhere near the amount he'd won in Nogales but enough to buy the adobe bricks that he and Alonzo needed to build the school. Maxwell was annoyed, the way he'd been after his first night of losing to the younger man. And the more he lost, the more he agitated and goaded. "Do you always play like this?" he finally asked.

"Pretty much," came Bart's reply, steady and even-tempered.

"Is that why you win so much?"

Again, the same answer. "Pretty much."

Another round of drinks was ordered, and the drovers they were playing against tried to stay out of the trouble that looked like it was bound to come. "Do you always cheat?"

The drover dealing the cards stopped in mid-deal until Bart indicated he should continue. "Nope, I don't have to cheat to beat you. You're just that bad a gambler."

Auebechon was doing his best to goad Bart into a gunfight, and the reason finally came to him – if Bart were dead, he couldn't accuse the cardsharp of being part of the theft. At that moment Bart knew he was right, and Maxwell was indeed one of the thieves. Not the man in his hotel room, but he had a hand in the robbery, somewhere. If he couldn't get rid of Maverick that way, what else might he try?

Bart wasn't going to sit around and find out. He put both of his hands on the table so that everyone could see he wasn't drawing his gun and proceeded to push his chair back and stand. "Gentlemen, it's been a pleasure. Perhaps we'll meet again sometime soon." He turned to look directly at Auebechon. "Maxwell, if I were you I'd get on my horse and leave town in a hurry. Before somebody finds some proof that you're nothing more than a common thief."

The gambler stood at the table and waited. One of the drovers pulled his gun from his holster and set it in the open, where everyone could see it. He directed his remarks at the cardsharp. "Perhaps you should listen, Señor. Before you get hurt."

Maxwell grabbed his money from the table and practically ran for the door. Bart turned to the drover who'd spoken. "Gracias, mi amigo. I wasn't lookin' forward to turnin' my back on him."

"Why didn't you kill him?" one of the other men asked. "He called you a cheat."

"Do you think I was cheatin'?"

All three drovers at the table shook their heads. "Somebody else'll get him," Maverick answered. "Maybe even his partner; it's not gonna be me."

Bart was ready for sleep; he could hear the bed calling his name. He left the social club, lighting a cigar as he walked up the street towards the hotel. With any luck that was the last he'd see of Maxwell Auebechon.


	21. Who Can it be Now?

Chapter 21 – Who Can it be Now?

Something was wrong, and he knew it for sure by the time he got to his room. The door wasn't closed completely, and Bart distinctly remembered locking it before he'd gone to play poker. He drew his gun and used the barrel to push the door open all the way; the daylight shining through the window of his room shone brightly on the body lying on the floor next to the bed. He recognized the dark blue coat the corpse had on; he'd seen it just a few minutes ago. The body was that of Maxwell Auebechon.

He entered the room, gun still drawn. He was alone. Bart bent down and rolled the body partway over; it was definitely the cardsharp. Nothing in the room had been touched or disturbed. He moved back out into the hall to go downstairs and send for the Federales, but he got two steps out the door and felt something hard across the back of his head. _'Not again,'_ crossed his mind for just a moment, and then all went black.

Some time later he started to come out of the fog that enveloped him. His head hurt, and he could see hazy forms standing over him, all speaking in Spanish. The first thing he understood was "Quizá mataron entre sí." Rough hands seized his wrist and felt for a pulse. When they let go the same voice said, "Éste está vivo." As his vision cleared the forms turned into three uniformed Federales.

The same hands that had felt for a pulse grabbed his arms and yanked him to his feet. He was swaying and unsteady, and he heard the voice tell him to "Quédese quieto." He raised his hands in response to the Federale that was aiming a pistol at him. "You shoot him?" The second Federale asked.

"No," Bart answered. "I found . . . . I found him like this. Check my gun. It hasn't been fired." The first Federale bent and looked around for Bart's Peacemaker. It was nowhere to be seen.

"Whose room is this?" the English-speaking Federale asked.

"Mine," the gambler replied, rubbing the back of his head.

"What happened here?"

"I don't know. I just came back from playing poker all night. I opened the door and there he was. And then made acquaintance with a gun butt."

The three police officers exchanged looks. "Who won the poker games?"

"I did," Bart answered.

They looked at each other again, perplexed. They could understand what had happened if the man that was alive had lost. But if he was the winner, there was no reason for the man on the floor to be dead. "Tráelo a la estación."

A pistol was shoved into his side. "Caminar."

Never argue with a gun in your ribs. He walked down the stairs slowly, still rubbing his head and neck, and reached the bottom just as Melodia came through the front door. "What happened?" she exclaimed.

"I'll explain later. Here, take this." He quietly eased his wallet out of his coat pocket and slipped it to her. If the Federales found the money, he'd never see it again.

"I'm coming with you," she whispered as she slipped the wallet, with its money inside, into her bolso. She trailed behind as the officer pushed the gringo ahead to the station.

"What do we have here?" the Inspector asked as they marched Bart into the jail. One of the Federales explained the situation to the Inspector, including the fact that they couldn't find Bart's Colt anywhere. When he was done the Inspector issued an order. "Go retrieve the body and find out who the dead man is."

Meanwhile, Bart stood with a gun in his ribs and Melodia by his side. "What happened?" she whispered again. "Who is dead?"

"Maxwell Auebechon," Bart answered.

"What? But we just saw him!"

"I played poker with him all night," he whispered back.

The Inspector turned to the gambler. "And what do you have to say for yourself, Señor?"

"I'm just an innocent bystander, Commandant."

The man in charge turned to Melodia. "Señorita Montoya, you know this man?"

She nodded her head thoughtfully. "Si, Inspector Benequiz. This is the man building the school, Señor Bart Maverick. He did not do anything wrong." She slipped her arm through Bart's and held on tight.

"Hmmmm. We shall see. Have a seat, Señor. You too, Señorita. We will wait for my men to return. You are injured, Señor. There is blood."

The Inspector was correct; there was a small trail of blood trickling down Bart's neck. He reached inside his coat and pulled out a handkerchief, and Melodia took it from him and gently wiped the back of his head. "Ouch," was all he could say. He'd been hit in the same place too many times in the past week. Bart and the girl sat at the Inspector's desk for almost thirty minutes before two of the Federales returned. They spoke quietly with Benequiz and handed him what looked like a wallet. He pulled several pieces of paper from it and read each of them over before dismissing his men. Finally he strode back to his desk and spoke to Bart.

"Did you know this man well, Señor Maverick?" The Inspector sounded considerably less accusatory than he had just a few minutes ago.

"Not at all, Inspector. I just met him last week in Nogales. I was surprised when he showed up here in Magdalena."

"Hmmmm." Benequiz sat down and handed one of the papers he'd examined to Bart. "This is the name you knew?"

The gambler took what had been handed to him and read it. "Si, Maxwell Auebechon. That's him."

The Inspector raised an eyebrow. "And who is this?" He passed Bart another paper, exactly like the first one, but the name on this one read _'René Gauthier.'_

Bart shook his head, gently. "I have no idea."

"And this one?" A third paper was produced, this one for _'Charles Longstreet.'_

Again, the same answer. Immediately followed by "Anymore in there?"

The commandant handed him two more. _'Geoffrey Runston'_ and _'Daniel Hernandez.'_

Bart looked them over carefully. They were identification papers, the description on each the same; only the names were different. _'Brown hair, hazel eyes, medium build, approximately six feet tall, small scar on inside of thumb, left hand, birthmark on back of neck.'_ The description was that of the man Bart knew as Maxwell Auebechon. "Con man?" he ventured.

Benequiz nodded his head. "I would assume so, from the multiple identities. What happened in Nogales, Señor Maverick?"

With no further prompting, Bart told the Inspector the whole story of what transpired in Nogales. When he was finished he waited to see if it would help the murder investigation or confirm his own potential involvement in Auebechon's death.

"That's an interesting story, Señor Maverick. Is there anyone that can confirm it?"

"Depends on what part you need confirmed. You can question any of the participants in the poker game or the Federale officers at the Nogales office. That's where I reported the theft. As for the rest of it . . . "

"I see. So who was the dead man, if not Maxwell Auebechon?" The Inspector stopped and thought, tapping his finger against his chin. "It appears that no gun has been found at the hotel, which means you couldn't have shot him. And someone had to hit you, didn't they? What am I to do with you? Do you have any suggestions, Señor Maverick?"

"You could let me go, Inspector."

"You are not leaving Magdalena anytime soon?"

"Not while he's helping to build the school," Melodia volunteered.

"There are too many unanswered questions here. I should have you locked up. But I cannot find a reason for you to have committed this murder. And I cannot find a way for you to have done it. Hmmmm." He sat for a moment, once again debating the issue with himself. "Alright, then, I see no reason to detain you any further. Gracias por su ayuda, Señor."

Bart stood and helped Melodia to her feet, then took her by the elbow. "Gracias."

"Let's get out of here," Bart whispered to the school teacher. "Before he changes his mind."

Once they were outside he let go of her arm. She opened her bolso and pulled his wallet out. "Please take this back. It makes me very nervous. There is so much money."

"Hmmpf," he grunted, "nowhere near as much as Auebechon stole from me in Nogales."

"You won more than that? And the man we met stole it?"

Bart nodded and retrieved his handkerchief from Melodia, applying it to his head and neck once again. He came away with less blood this time. "Not him. His partner. The man that killed him and planted the body in my room. There's only one problem. I have no idea who he is or what he looks like."

Quizá mataron entre si – Maybe they killed each other

Éste está vivo – This one's alive

Quédese quieto – Stand still

Tráelo a la estación – Bring him to the station

Caminar - Walk

Bolso – Bag or purse

Gracias por su ayuda – Thank you for your help


	22. We Can't All be Good Lookin'

Chapter 22 – We Can't All be Good Lookin'

"Why were you comin' to see me, anyway?"

That was the question Bart posed to Melodia as they walked back towards 'Mama Castillo's Inn' late on Sunday morning. As they approached Cantina Americano, the smells drifted out to them and Bart found himself following his nose inside. "Do you mind? I'm starvin'."

"I could eat, too," came the quick reply. Manuela was at work this morning and came straight to their table with the coffee pot. "Lo mismo que la última vez," Melodia ordered, and Manuela hurried off to place their order. "Now, you have coffee and we have food on the way. Tell me what happened."

"Nothin', really. Auebechon was already playin' poker when I got to the hall. I picked another game and stayed until it broke up. Then there was nowhere to go but his table. He tried to bait me into somethin'; maybe a gun fight; I'm not sure. I wouldn't take the bait. That's when I knew he was involved in the robbery. He finally high-tailed it outta there and I went back to the hotel." He paused to drink almost the whole cup of coffee before beginning again. "I found him dead in my room. Musta been his partner that slugged me when I came out to go for the Federales. That's the whole story."

"And you knew nothing about any of those other names? Ever heard any of them?" Melodia questioned.

"Nope. Never heard one of 'em. Wonder which was the real one? And what kind of a con game were they runnin'? Besides the straight out theft, I mean."

She shook her head. "I'm just glad the Inspector believes you are innocent of the murder."

Bart chuckled. Melodia was so naïve and trusting. "He doesn't believe it for a minute," he explained to her. "But he had no evidence to support holdin' me. He let me go to see what he could turn up. I haven't seen the last of the Inspector."

"But why would he do that?"

"Melodia, he's got a dead body and the only suspect he's got is me. He's not gonna give up on me unless we find him somebody else."

"But who?" she questioned, just as Manuela appeared with their breakfast.

"That's the question, isn't it?"

XXXXXXXX

He wanted nothing more than to go back to his room and go to sleep, but he knew the cattle drovers would be leaving town soon and if he was going to find out anything he'd better go talk to them before they left. He lit a cigar on his way down to the Lady and hoped he could find anyone that had played with Maxwell last night.

When he walked into the social hall it was almost deserted, save for one or two at the roulette wheel and two saloon girls. Bart recognized one of the girls from last night and offered to buy her a drink if she'd talk to him. Her name was Tamita.

"You remember the man I'm talking about? About my height, a little heavier, brown hair. Had on a blue coat and a smug expression."

"Si, I remember him. His name was Manuel – no, Maxwell. That's it, Maxwell. He came in after I did last night. He is a friend of yours?"

"No," Bart answered, "but I need to find him. Did he talk to anyone here? Anybody come in to see him? Anybody at all?"

"Not that I remember, Seńor. The only time he wasn't playing poker he was sitting at the faro table."

"Was he there by himself?"

Tamita hesitated for a minute while she tried to remember. "I don't think so. I seem to remember someone else there, too. But I am not certain." She took a swallow of the whiskey in front of her. "José would know. He is the faro dealer. He will be in later tonight, perhaps six o'clock."

He left another coin on the table. "Gracias, Tamita. Have another on me."

She looked up at him and smiled. "Gracias, Señor."

He talked to the bartender before leaving but got the same answers. He sighed and headed back to the hotel. There was nothing to do now but sleep and wait for six o'clock and his only lead. He fervently hoped the Inspector had patience; this was one search that might take a while.

XXXXXXXX

Melodia went to visit Imelda Sequestre after breakfast with Bart and they were sitting on the porch talking and drinking tea. "How much do you really know about the man, Melodia?" Imelda had been asking the same question, worded different ways, for about twenty minutes.

"Enough. Enough to know that he's a good man. He was a little . . . . . . a little confused when he first came to Magdalena."

"Confused? That's the third time you've used the term. Explain that to me, please."

"His wife died a month ago. He hadn't yet grieved for her. He thought he could just drink her away, but he knows better now. And there is no more drinking."

"Are you sure? He is a gringo. And, from what you tell me, a gambler," Imelda reminded her.

"And has been there every day, working with Alonzo. What does your husband have to say about him?"

Imelda shrugged. "You know men. They protect each other. Alonzo is easily impressed."

Melodia laughed. "So he's impressed with Bart?"

"Si, talks about how well they work together. If he is such a good man, what is he doing in Mexico?"

Now it was Melodia's turn to shrug her shoulders. "Didn't you ever have something bad happen and want to run away from it? He says he just got on his horse and rode south."

"Are you sure he is not a wanted man?"

"He says no, and I believe him."

"That's because you've fallen in love with him. You are as easily impressed as Alonzo. Has he given you any indication – "

Melodia quickly cut her off. "No. None at all. I will wait, and not talk about it, and see what happens. Meanwhile, they build a school. Something no one else in this town would do. For me to teach in, and for your niños to learn in. It is a good thing he does."

Imelda had to agree with that. "Yes, it is a good thing."

XXXXXXXX

It was almost seven o'clock on Sunday evening when Bart returned to the 'Lady from Madrid' Social Hall. The hall wasn't packed like it had been last night, but there were a good number of the cattle drovers still there. Tamita was gone and there was a different bartender; Bart checked and was told that the man running the faro game right now was indeed José.

Maverick had to wait until José could talk to him; either that or sit and play the game and Bart wasn't particularly enamored of it. Faro was too much like gambling to suit the Maverick taste. Finally there was no one but him at the table and Bart could ask his questions.

"I talked to Tamita earlier today. She said she saw a friend of mine at your faro game last night. About my height, a little heavier, brown hair. Had on a blue coat and a kinda unhappy look."

"Si, sure. Señor Auebechon. I remember because he tipped me many pesos just to let him sit at the game and talk to a man that was already playing faro. When the Señor left my game he went to one of the poker tables to play. I never saw him after that."

"Do you know who the man was that he talked to?"

"No, Señor, I do not. He was a stranger to me."

"Can you describe him to me, Jose? It would really help if I could find this hombre."

"Well, it was very dark in here, Señor. I cannot see so well in the dark."

Bart started laying down pesos. "Is it gettin' any brighter, José?"

"Si, Señor, now I remember. He was a man of average height, what you would call heavyset. Just the opposite of you, Señor. Gray hair, blue eyes. He had a mustache, and a very trim beard. He was in a splendid mood when Señor Auebechon started talking to him; in not such a good mood when the Señor left. He was not a very skilled faro player."

"What else, José? A name? A hotel? Anything?"

José shook his head. "He had a scar across the palm of his right hand. Like he had been cut with a knife. I never heard a name. But I did hear him say that he was staying at Mama Castillo's."

Lo mismo que la última vez – The same as last time


	23. Inspector Maverick

Chapter 23 – Inspector Maverick

Bart's determination to be rested come Monday morning had proven fruitless. He'd spent most of Sunday night talking to all the drovers at the social club that were still in town and no one could provide any more information than José had. Auebechon had been a fairly quiet presence at the poker tables until Bart settled in at the same place. And he had returned to Mama Castillo's and found that there was no one matching the description he'd gotten from José staying there.

The good news that he could share with Alonzo was the existence of enough money to buy the adobe bricks they needed to continue the build. They took Alonzo's wagon and spent most of the morning loading it, then spent a great portion of the afternoon unloading it back at the site. Dorado rode out in the afternoon and was suitably impressed with how much progress they'd made.

"I gotta admit, I sure had my doubts," she told Bart as she admired the work. "But you seem to have some hidden talents that no one would expect from a lazy, shiftless gambler." She laughed as she paid him the 'compliment', and he laughed with her.

"Don't be spreadin' that around, please? I have a reputation to maintain," he begged her.

"Trust me, I don't travel in the same social circles that you do. Nobody'll hear it from me."

"Long as word doesn't get back to Texas. I've got family there that would disown me for even thinkin' about doin' anything like this."

"You ever think about givin' up gamblin', you come see me, ya hear? I'm sure I could use a man like you somewhere." She winked at him before mounting her buckskin. "Long as he was willin'."

After Dorado had ridden off, Alonzo made his way over to Bart. "That's a fine figure of a woman, Señor Bart. She would also make an excellent wife for some lucky man."

Bart looked at Alonzo and wondered just what the builder was up to. "You tryin' to get me married off, Alonzo?"

"Si. If you marry in Mexico, you will stay in Mexico. That would please many people here in Magdalena, myself included."

Bart grinned. "Look at me, workin' hard and makin' friends, just like a real boy. If Pappy could only see me now . . . . . . wait, he'd disown me."

They were laughing when Inspector Benequiz rode up, with two of his men following him. "Señor Maverick, Señor Sequestre. May I have a minute of your time, Señor Maverick?"

Bart shrugged. "Ask whatever you need to, Inspector. Alonzo knows everything that happened."

The Inspector dismounted and handed the reins to his lieutenant. "Come with me, Señor." He walked over to the nearest mesquite tree, and Bart and Alonzo followed.

"It has come to my attention that you spent a good part of your Sunday asking questions at the 'Lady from Madrid.' Is that true?"

The gambler chuckled. "Now Inspector, you know it is, or you wouldn't be out here askin' me about it."

"Why did you do that, Señor?"

Bart leaned up against the tree trunk. "You and I both know why, Commandant. You mighta turned me loose Saturday night, but I'm the only lead you've got so far. And I'm not inclined to wanna sit in a jail cell while you look for Auebechon's partner. So I did a little investigatin' myself."

"And did you find anything of value, Señor?"

"Not so far. I'll let ya know when I do."

"Will you, Señor?" The skeptical tone was accompanied by a raised eyebrow.

"If it amounts ta more than a hill a beans."

The Inspector nodded and was about to leave when Bart asked another question. "You haven't run across anyone new in town, have you Inspector?"

"No, Señor, I have not." The quizzical look returned to Benequiz's features. "Why do you ask?"

"Idle curiosity," the gambler answered. "Well, Inspector, good luck with your investigation. Alonzo, let's get this building started before it gets too late."

Bart and Alonzo headed back towards the framed school. The Inspector watched them walk away and signaled his lieutenant to bring his horse, then mounted and rode back towards town with his officers following him. As soon as they were out of earshot Bart turned back to Alonzo. "I saw that change in your face when I asked about anyone new in town. There is somebody, isn't there?"

"Si. Yesterday there was a new face in church. A man I have never seen before. A . . . . . .a gringo."

"What did he look like, Alonzo? Gray hair? Mustache and a beard?"

"Si, and a scar across the palm of his hand. I know because we shook hands after the padre was done with the service. I had never seen him before."

"Did you hear his name? Do you know who he was?"

"No, no name, Señor Bart. But he stayed after the service to talk to the padre about a burial today."

Bart dropped the shovel he had in his hands. "Today? They're burying Auebechon today?"

"Señor Auebechon? I heard no name mentioned. But the stranger was talking about burying someone this afternoon. Señor Bart, where are you going?"

Bart grabbed Alonzo's pistol and was halfway mounted; he spurred the mare on before he was all the way in the saddle. "I'll be back!" he yelled over his shoulder at Alonzo. _'Where was the cemetery?'_ He thought frantically. It must be at the other end of town, and that's where he headed at a breakneck pace. He rode through the town of Magdalena as fast as the mare would go and found the graveyard just as the last shovel full of dirt was tossed into the new grave.

There were only two people at the gravesite besides the laborer that had done the digging; the English-speaking Federale from Saturday night and the gray haired man. Bart dismounted with the same speed he'd mounted and grabbed for the pistol he'd taken from Alonzo. "Hey!" he yelled as he came out of the saddle. The Federale looked confused. So did the man with the mustache.

"Señor Maverick. What are you doing here?"

"Come to watch this man bury his partner."

"My . . . . my what?"

"Your partner. Maxwell Auebechon. Or was he René Gauthier? Or one of the other identities he had on him? Wasn't it lucky that you were here to handle the burial in a hurry? Put the evidence in the ground before anybody could find the gun that put the bullet in his back. There's only one problem. The Federales already know I didn't kill him." He held the gun steady on the stranger and told the Federale, "Go back to the jail and bring the Inspector."

The officer turned his horse around and headed back towards town. Bart motioned the murderer to climb down from his mount. "Take the gun and drop it on the ground," Bart ordered, and the stranger complied. The gambler walked over and took the horse's reins. "Did you really think somebody wouldn't notice that there was no way I could have shot him since there was no gun?" The stranger remained silent. "You got a name?"

Finally the man spoke. "Gauthier. Phillippe Gauthier. It's my brother's burial you've interrupted. His name is René Gauthier."

"You killed your own brother?"

Phillippe Gauthier hung his head. "René always said he was the brains. I was just the muscle. I guess he was right."

By the time the Inspector rode up with his three officers, Phillippe had outlined the whole scheme. In addition to being 'the muscle' of the pair, the older brother had learned the art of forgery in the war. After a few months of using a name he would create a new identity for his brother; if someone was looking for the old one in that part of the country, René would simply disappear into the new name. When they found a 'pigeon' ripe for the taking one or the other steered him into a crooked poker game. They met their match in Maverick, however, and were forced to improvise. He had too much of the cardsharps and the poker groups money to let him leave, so they robbed him. Everything would have been fine if René hadn't shown up in Magdalena and run into the gambler.

Bart planted the seeds of doubt in the cardsharp's mind when he spun the tale of the _'fifteen_ _thousand dollars'_ he'd been robbed of. The two brothers had always been wary of each other and by the time they determined that they'd been tricked into revealing the robbery was no random event, it was too late. The older brother saw only one way out; kill René and pin the murder on Maverick. The problem was he'd never tried anything like that before and he didn't think about Bart's gun until the Federales were on the way and there was no time to remedy the situation, so he took it with him.

The Inspector listened to the story and shook his head as his officers placed the murderer in handcuffs and put him back on his horse. He wasn't quite sure what to make of this . . . . this _gambler_ that had already done so much for the little town. "How much did they take from you, Señor Maverick?"

"A little over five-thousand dollars, Inspector. Why?"

Benequiz produced the wallet that his men had confiscated from Gauthier. He counted the money inside and then handed most of it to the gambler. "Would you settle for an even five thousand, Señor?"

Bart's face lit up. "Most certainly, Commandant. Most certainly."

The Inspector finally smiled. "If you should ever decide to go into law enforcement, Señor, I could use a man of your talents." Then he mounted his horse and rode off, back towards town.

Bart looked at the money in his hands. "Don't that beat all," he laughed. "Hear that Pappy? Me in law enforcement."


	24. He Ain't Heavy

Chapter 24 – He Ain't Heavy

It was a long, slow ride back out to the school site. His mare was worn out, and he didn't dare push her any faster. After the elation of recovering most of the stolen money and completely clearing his somewhat tarnished name of a murder charge, there was a lot to think about.

The admission by Phillippe Gauthier had chilled him to the bone. _"It's my brother's burial you've interrupted."_ How could anyone do it? He thought about Bret for the first time in weeks, and a wave of guilt washed over him. He hadn't considered anything or anyone when he rode away from the Double C Ranch; he wasn't capable at that moment. But there'd been plenty of time since then, and his brother hadn't crossed his mind.

Bret. Just the name made him smile. Sometimes they'd fought like cats and dogs; sometimes they swore they hated each other; sometimes each was the only person in the world that could offer the other comfort. His life would be greatly diminished without his brother Bret in it. And that's what troubled him. There was no question that he'd done the right thing by riding away from the ranch, but he'd ridden away from his brother at the same time. And he felt guilty now for having done that.

He needed to make things right, and there was only one way to do that. He'd send Bret a telegram and let him know where he was and that he was alright. No, if he did that Bret was liable to show up in Magdalena before Bart was ready to face him. Besides, he didn't know where his brother was right now. Before he'd left Dry Springs Samantha had said something about sending for Bret, but that was weeks ago. He doubted mightily that his brother was still sitting at the ranch, waiting to see if he turned up anywhere. Then he'd send a telegram to Samantha. He had no doubt that she could find Bret and let him know that Bart was alive and relatively well. That's it, he would stop in town and send a telegram. He looked at the fading daylight and knew that he had to get back out to Alonzo before his builder quit working for the day and headed home without his weapon. He would send the telegram later.

The mare made her way down the main 'street' of town and back out the other side. Even though he'd reached a decision to let his brother know he was alive, thoughts of the two of them growing up wouldn't leave him alone. From skipping stones on the river to chasing frogs that they'd brought into the house to the time that he almost participated in the holdup of a local saloon; their lives together ran through his mind over and over. Every time there was an illness, or a broken bone, or a skinned knee, Bret was there with the reassurance that everything would turn out alright. How could he have left New Mexico without a backward glance, without thought for his brother's peace of mind?

And on the slow ride back the truth hit him like a ton of the things that he and Alonzo had spent all morning loading and unloading – he'd given no thought, no attention to anything but his own pain. That's all he was able to do on the ride away from the ranch; fleeing the dreadful image seared into his brain – Caroline in his arms, dead. He vaguely remembered holding her lifeless body, rocking her and crooning platitudes of love and comfort to her. Many of the same things Bret had said to him over the years in moments of crisis or pain.

After that, everything was wrapped in a haze of dread and grief. The only thing he could do was run away, and he'd run in an alcohol fueled stupor. Until the night in the livery in Magdalena – the night he tried to take his own life, just to stop the ache burning inside him. He still didn't understand his pistol's misfire, the pistol that was somewhere other than in the holster on his hip. Time to buy a new gun.

The school was in sight now, and he urged the mare into a canter. Alonzo looked up from the bricks he was setting into the mud mortar he'd spread on one side of the framing and gave a small nod. When Bart got to the mesquite tree where they kept their horses, he dismounted and removed Alonzo's gun from his holster. "Sorry I ran off like that with your pistol. I had no time to explain."

"What caused such a reaction, mi amigo?"

"You won't believe it – I still can't. The man you saw in church was Maxwell Auebechon's killer. AND his brother."

Alonzo dropped the brick he had in his hands and it landed, unbroken, on the ground below. "What? His hermano?"

Bart nodded. "Si. Real names René and Phillippe Gauthier. Shot him in the back in cold blood, Alonzo. How does a man do that?"

"I do not know, Señor Bart. I cannot imagine anything so frio."

"Neither can I." Bart became very quiet, and it was obvious he was thinking about something.

After a few minutes, Alonzo set the last brick for the day and turned back to Bart. "Something is bothering you."

No answer for a moment, and then a softly spoken "Si."

"Something you can fix?"

Again, the answer was slow in coming. "I'm gonna try."

"Then let us be done for this day. Tomorrow will be here before we know it."

"I think that's a splendid idea, Alonzo. There's somethin' I have to do, anyway."

XXXXXXXX

Bart went straight to the telegraph office and sent this wire to Samantha in Dry Springs:

 _I'm alright_

 _Find Bret and let him know_

 _Bart_

After he paid for the telegram, he went back to the hotel. Half an hour later he was ready to take Melodia to dinner, but the events of the day were still weighing heavily on his mind. He knew he had to explain to her what had happened with Phillippe Gauthier and the Inspector, but something was holding him back. Finally when they were more than halfway through supper the girl could remain silent no longer.

"Bart?"

"Hmmm?"

"Something happened today?"

A nod of the head. "Si."

Sometimes the man wouldn't be quiet and sometimes you couldn't pry words out of him no matter how hard you tried. This was one of the latter occasions. "Did it have to do with Señor Auebechon?"

He nodded again. "His real name was René Gauthier."

"How did you find that out?"

"We caught his killer."

"We? Who was with you?"

"Apenado. I caught his killer."

"Bart, must I keep asking you questions? Tell me what happened, por favor?"

He told her the story of the whole day, omitting the identity of the murderer and the Inspector's surprising generosity. When he finished she was still looking at him expectantly.

"What?" he asked.

"Who was the killer?"

Bart sighed. There was no easy way to say it. "Phillippe Gauthier. His own brother."

Melodia gasped. "His brother?"

He repeated the answer. "His brother."

"Is that what bothers you so?"

"How could he do that, Melodia? How could someone shoot their brother in a futile attempt to save their own hide? What kind of an animal shoots his flesh and blood?"

"You have a brother who is very close to you?"

He started to remind her that he'd told her all about Bret and then he stopped himself. He hadn't told Melodia anything about his family – it was Dorado Martin who'd asked all the questions and gotten all the answers. "Si. He practically raised me."

"Where were your mamá y papa?"

"Momma died when I was five years old. Pappy . . . . . . . Pappy lives in Texas. He's a poker player, just like the rest of the family. Pappy thinks the sun rises and sets in my brother. I'm just . . . . I'm just there. Bret's more my father than Pappy."

She reached across the table and took his hand. "I am so sorry. It must have been hard."

He looked up, sorry that he'd given her the wrong impression. "No, no, no . . . . . . . that's wrong. Pappy was there. But we were a handful, and he played poker at night to support us. We've always been kind of – not at odds with each other, just more cautious around the other one."

"And your brother?"

"Bret's the rock in the family. The anchor that holds us all together. That's what bothers me so much about the Gauthiers. How could brothers be like that?"

"Some familias are not like yours and mine. Some do not even like each other. It is so very troubling when niños grow up this way. Maybe I can help teach them to care for each other."

"You'll do great. About the school – "

A look of panic appeared on her face. "What is wrong? What happened?"

"Nothin's wrong. I have enough money now to make sure it gets finished."

She looked at him questioningly. "How did you do that? You haven't played poker again, have you?"

At last he smiled. "No, ma'am. The Inspector liberated some of Gauthier's money. We owe Benequiz a big 'gracias'!"

"He did that? Really?"

"He did. Who knew the Inspector had a heart?"

"See there? People can surprise you."

She still had hold of his hand and he squeezed her fingers before letting loose of it. "Yes, they can."

hermano – brother

frio - cold

apenado – sorry

por favor – please

mamá y papa – mama and papa


	25. The Other Shoe

Chapter 25 – The Other Shoe

For a short time things were calm and peaceful, and the days went by rapidly. Bart and Alonzo did quite a bit of work on the school and went to Magdalena to order the glass they'd need for the windows. Melodia left her job at 'Mama Consolata's' for good this time, and she divided her days between working on lessons for the first year and visiting with Imelda Sequestre.

Alonzo taught Bart everything he needed to know about making the mud used as mortar for the adobe bricks, and the walls of the school grew to be almost four feet high. Sometimes they finished for the day early and sometimes they worked until almost dark, and in the evenings Bart taught Melodia to play poker. On Friday night they were determined to get one more row of bricks in and worked until it was almost black outside, and no one would admit to it but that helped contribute to the mishap.

' _One last brick and I'm done for the day,'_ thought the gambler, as he set the last block of adobe into its place in the wall they were building. Just as he did that Alonzo stumbled in the near dark and fell forward, catching the back of Bart's right arm and jamming it full force into the wall.

Bart let out a cry that could be heard all the way up to Dorado Martin's house. He clutched his wrist and hand and Alonzo grabbed him, guiding him to the back of the wagon that they had at the building site that day. Sequestre jumped in the front and yanked the reins free, slapping the horses into full gallop mode almost instantly. "Madre de Dios!" Alonzo yelled. "Lo siento. ¿Esta roto?"

Bart gritted his teeth and groaned. "Yeah, it's broken. Hurry, Alonzo."

It only took a few minutes for the horses to race into town, with Bart trying not to bounce and moaning the whole time. As they skidded to a halt in front of the doctor's office, Alonzo jumped out to help his apprentice builder down from the wagon and hurried him inside. Doctor Mendez was just getting ready to leave for the night, and he hastily shepherded Bart into what functioned as his exam room. He took one look at the rapidly swelling wrist and hand and told the gambler, "Tengo que reducir la hinchazón." The doctor disappeared into another room and returned in a few minutes with a basin of almost-cold water; he gingerly picked up the injured hand and placed it in the water after rolling up the shirt sleeve. He got a brown bottle out of his cabinet and handed it to Bart, telling him, "Beber tanto de él como sea necesario."

"¿Qué es?" Bart asked.

"Laudanum," the doctor answered. "Que lo necesitará."

"No," Bart answered.

Alonzo had entered the exam room. "Please, Señor Bart, you will need to drink it. I've had a broken wrist before. It is very painful to set."

Bart looked from Alonzo to the doctor, then back once more. He sighed and gritted his teeth again, then took a long swallow from the bottle. It tasted worse than any of the medicines that Doc Jennings had ever given him when he was young and sick, even the ipecacs.

"De Nuevo," the doctor told him, and he obediently took another long swallow. And made a face when he was done.

"Does it have to taste so bad?" he asked Alonzo.

The builder nodded solemnly. "Si."

The gambler studied his friend, who was standing there watching what was going on and looking thoroughly miserable. "It's not your fault, Alonzo. It was an accident."

The doctor was carefully examining Bart's hand and wrist. He said something else but Maverick was having trouble understanding the words. The laudanum had begun to take effect. "What did he say, Zo?"

"It is not just the wrist that is broken. The hand is broken, also. He wants to know how much you use your hands? What shall I tell him?"

Bart laughed softly. He was most amused by the doctor's question. "Tell him I need the hand to be in perfect condition and he needs to do whatever's . . . . . . whatever's necessary to get it that way."

The doctor watched his patient soberly as Alonzo translated, then motioned Bart to take another draught of the laudanum. While he was doing exactly as instructed, the doctor unexpectedly twisted his hand and Bart heard the unmistakable 'pop' as the wrist was skillfully maneuvered back into place. Maverick let out a yell that could be heard all the way down to the cantina.

"I can't drink any more of this stuff, Alonzo. If he's got any more manipulating to do, he's gonna hafta do it NOW."

The doctor understood enough of what was said to nod his head and remove the hand from the basin, carefully drying it off. Then he grabbed Bart's index finger and pulled as hard as he could. There was another small 'pop', followed by a grimace and a sputtered "damn."

It took almost an hour for Mendez to cast the hand and wrist. By that time the laudanum had begun to wear thin and Bart was once again in throbbing pain that radiated all the way up his arm. Alonzo had gone to get Melodia and she came running into the doctor's little office.

"Where's Alonzo?" Bart asked as the doctor was finishing the cast.

"I sent him home to Imelda," Melodia answered. "The poor man was so distraught you would have thought his arm was broken."

"Not my arm," Bart told her. "It's the hand and wrist."

She took a towel from the doctor and wiped the sweat from his face, then pushed the hair back off his forehead. "The worst place for you. Will you be able to play poker?"

She saw something flash in his eyes that she could only describe as dark and frightening. It was there for just a moment, then was gone. "I don't know," he answered quietly. "But it's not Alonzo's fault. We worked until it was nearly dark; it was an accident. I need you to tell him . . . . . go tell him it's not his fault. Please. When the doc's done I'm goin' to my room. I'll meet you there."

"No," she answered as she shook her head. "I'll take you back to your room. Then I'll go to Alonzo's. Then I'll get us something to eat."

"I don't want anything, Melodia. Nothin' to eat."

"Yes, you must," she insisted. "The laudanum . . . . it will make you ill if you don't eat something. And I'll bring you coffee."

He brightened somewhat when she mentioned coffee. "Alright. What's the doc sayin' now?"

Melodia listened as the doctor explained that he wanted Bart to return to the office in three days so he could fit him with a smaller cast when the swelling went down. And he wanted his patient to take the rest of the laudanum with him for the pain. When Mendez quit speaking Bart looked at the girl. "Wallets in my coat. Give the doc some money, would ya?"

A few minutes later they were on their way to the hotel. Bart was relieved that Melodia was still with him; he was unsteady on his feet from the medicine. The cast was cumbersome, so Mendez had put the arm in a sling and it seemed odd not to have the use of his right hand. He sighed as they walked, more than worried about his poker playing abilities when the break in his wrist was healed.

It was a grueling climb as both the laudanum and adrenaline continued to wear off; every step made the whole arm jostle and throb. Bart was exhausted by the time he finally reached the bed. Melodia took his boots off but he wouldn't let her help any further – he insisted she return to Alonzo's home to check on his friend.

It was a very tormented man that she found, and nothing Imelda could say was successful in easing his state of mind. "Estúpido, estúpido, estúpido. Why did I have to be so descuidado?"

"You weren't careless, Alonzo. It was an accident."

Her husband sat on a chair, his head in his hands, and looked up only when he heard approaching footsteps. He was startled to see the school teacher standing on his porch and was immediately even more disconsolate. His voice was fast approaching a frantic pitch. "Why are you here? Where is Señor Bart? What horrible event have I caused now?"

Melodia crouched down on the ground in front of Alonzo and took his hands in hers, speaking to him in a soft, reassuring tone of voice, treating him much as she would a child. "You've caused nothing to transpire. Bart is in his room, in his bed, waiting for my return. He sent me to you because he was concerned that you were blaming yourself for what occurred. It was an accident, Alonzo. He refused to sleep until he knew you were at peace with what happened. He needs to rest, so you must forgive yourself. Do you understand?"

A nodding head was followed by a calmer, steadier timbre. "Si, Melodia. I understand. Tell Señor Bart I will be there in the morning to see to his well-being. And that I said 'gracias'."

Melodia whispered something to Alonzo and then stood, grasping Imelda's hand and squeezing it before she turned and went back the way she'd come. Imelda rested her hand on her husband's shoulder and implored him, "Come eat dinner now. You must be strong for your friend. He will need your help now more than ever."

Alonzo rose from the chair and followed his wife inside. She was as wise as he was foolish, and he thanked the Virgin Mother that Imelda was his wife.

Medre de dios – Mother of God

Lo siento. ¿Esta roto? – I am so sorry. Is it broken?

Tengo que reducir la hinchazón – I have to reduce the swelling

Beber tanto de él como sea necesario – Drink as much of it as you need

¿Qué es? – What is it?

Que lo necesitará - You will need it

De Nuevo – Again

Estúpido, estúpido, estúpido – Stupid, stupid, stupid

Descuidado - Careless


	26. If Wishes Were Horses

Chapter 26 – If Wishes Were Horses . . . .

True to his word, Alonzo Sequestre knocked on the door of room six in Mama Castillo's Inn the next morning and waited. When there was no answer he knocked again and at last heard a muffled "Just a minute" from inside. The door opened to reveal Melodia standing in her bare feet, with disheveled hair and a startled expression on her face. "Oh, Alonzo, come in."

The builder did so and found Bart still sleeping, laying in the bed at an awkward angle. From Bart's position in the bed and the way Melodia looked, she'd been sleeping next to the gambler. She saw the surprise in Alonzo's eyes and explained. "I couldn't leave him alone last night, so when he finally fell asleep, I just lay down on the other side of the bed. He has no idea I was here all night."

"Ah," was the only thing Alonzo said. What his two friends did or did not do was none of his business. "I came to help with Señor Bart's ah . . . . . preparations for the day."

It took the girl a minute to realize what Alonzo was talking about. "Oh, that's a good idea," she replied, then slipped on her shoes and headed for the door. "I'm going to get breakfast, do you want anything besides coffee?"

"No, Señorita, Imelda made breakfast for me. But coffee would be good. Gracias."

"See if you can wake him. He had to use the laudanum several times last night. I'll be right back." Melodia was gone before Alonzo could say anything else.

"Señor Bart, it is time to wake. Come, Melodia went to get your breakfast and I am here to help with . . . . . . . . ah, anything else that needs to be done." A shake of the left shoulder produced no movement or response, and Alonzo tried again, this time with more force. A third effort was all it took to wake the sleeping man, but he was surprised by the face that greeted him when he opened his eyes.

"Alonzo?"

"Si, Señor. It is me. Your breakfast will be here shortly, along with Melodia. I will help however I can." Alonzo offered his hand and Bart grabbed it and pulled himself upright in bed. Everything on his right side ached, from the tips of his fingers all the way up to his shoulder.

"I need to get cleaned up and shave, Zo. Can ya help with that?"

"Si. That's why I am here. To help you." Alonzo's voice was strong and steady, but his eyes betrayed his real feelings. He still looked like a dog that had been beaten by its much-loved owner.

"When we're done, I want you to do somethin' for me. Can ya?"

Alonzo nodded ascent. "Anything, Señor Bart."

"Actually, two things. First, please stop callin' me Señor Bart. It's just Bart. Second, I want ya to see if ya can hire a crew to help ya with the school. Three, four, five men, however many ya think will work best. I'll pay 'em. And I may not be able to lay any more bricks, but I'll be there to watch how everything's done. Start 'em Monday mornin'. Can ya do that for me?"

"Si, Señor Ba . . . . . . Bart. I can do that."

"Good. Let's get started."

XXXXXXXX

By the time Melodia returned with food and coffee, Bart had gotten cleaned up and changed clothes, and Alonzo had shaved him. Eating with his left hand was an experience not to be missed, but he knew that he'd better get used to it. It was going to be that way for a while. He rejected taking any more of the laudanum and attempted to live with the pain. By the time the food was finished and the coffee was almost gone the two friends had decided they needed four experienced men to finish the school, and they'd agreed on a fair wage for each man.

Alonzo took his leave to begin the search and Bart and Melodia were left with the last of the coffee. The school teacher was determined to discuss the gamblers current living arrangements and expected him to put up a fight. She was pleasantly surprised when he didn't.

"You can't stay by yourself until the cast is ready to come off. That could be two months. You're going to need help until then. I talked to the Señora this morning. She has another room down the hall that is larger and has two beds in it. She will give it to you for the same price as this room. That way I could stay here and help when you need it."

"I like this room. I don't wanna change rooms."

"It's just a room," she told him.

He shook his head. "No, it's not. When I can't sleep I look out the window and watch the town. I can't do that down the hall."

Melodia thought for a moment. "What if there was another bed in this room, over in the corner?" She pointed to the far end of the room.

"That would be fine with me." He chuckled at the long-forgotten memory. It wasn't that many years ago that he and Bret had shared a room. "Will the Señora do that?"

"I will ask her."

Melodia went downstairs to see if the Señora would move the extra bed into the room. She was back in just a few minutes. "She can have a bed moved in but wanted one dollar to bring it in here from another room. I told her no, you would not pay it." She paused and smirked at the conversation. "The bed will be here shortly."

As she finished explaining there was a knock on the door, and Melodia opened it to find Pedro with the bed. She allowed him to drag it into the room and place it on the far side of the room, against the wall. He smiled at the two of them as he left.

"What about your boarding house?" Bart asked abruptly.

"What about it?"

"Will ya keep your room there?"

It only took a moment to answer. "Si, I must have someplace to live after you are well."

"Then let me pay for your room as long as you live here. That's the least I can do. You're supposed to be a school teacher, not a nursemaid. Takin' care of me wasn't part of the plan."

"I will consider it."

"Good," he nodded. "You can bring your clothes down here. There's plenty of room."

"Si, I will bring some of them. The work I was doing on my lessons, though – I want to do that in my room. Now, enough about me. You need to rest. I saw you all through breakfast, every time you had to move your arm you were in pain. Alonzo came early today – he's used to starting work at daylight. Will you do that for me? Lay down again for a while? I will take the coffee pot and dishes back to Mama Consolata's. Bien?"

"Bien." He agreed with her. It was painful to move, and he was still worn out from the aching and the laudanum. He lay down in bed carefully and closed his eyes. Melodia hummed as she assembled everything in the basket to return to her former place of employment, and he drifted off to sleep with the sound of her sweet voice in his ears. . . . . . . .

 _It was a beautiful summer day, and Bart walked towards the school while holding his daughter Della. Caroline was a few steps behind him, and she had her hands full with the two boys. He heard a squeal, followed by a high-pitched shriek, and knew that Jamie was chasing Joey again. "Boys, come back here," Caroline called, and he stopped to wait for her to catch up with him._

 _The boys raced past their parents. They had just turned four and were so full of energy that Bart and Caroline didn't know what to do with them half the time. Della was five and a half and starting school for the first time. "You can put me down, Daddy," she told her father solemnly, and he kissed her on the nose._

" _Nope, princess, ladies get to ride their first day of school. You'll have plenty of time to walk by yourself."_

 _The little girl smiled and Bart's heart melted. She had his eyes, his mother's eyes, and all she had to do was look at him and anything she wanted was hers. All three children were blonde like their mother, and Bart wondered if the next one was going to be towheaded, too. He reached down and took Caroline's hand, then leaned over to kiss her. "How ya doin'?" he asked her. He hadn't wanted her to make this walk; it was too close to time for the baby to be born and moving around was difficult. She'd insisted; it was Della's first day of school and nothing was going to keep her mother from being there._

" _I'm fine," she answered, knowing that he wouldn't accept any other response._

 _They could see the teacher standing in the doorway, welcoming all the new and returning students. It was Melodia Montoya, and she was smiling and happy. She waved at them. Della was her goddaughter, and all the children thought of her as family._

" _Why's the school named after you, Daddy?" the girl in his arms asked._

" _Now, Della honey, I've told you that before. Your daddy is the one that built the school," Caroline told her for at least the fifth or sixth time. "The old school burned down and daddy built this one."_

" _You didn't really build it, did you, Daddy?" Della persisted, as Bart set his daughter down on the ground and took her hand in his. Caroline let go of his other hand and clapped hers together, her way of calling the boys. They came running to her like they always did. When Bart tried it, they pretended not to hear._

" _Yes, honey, I really built it. Well, Alonzo and I built it. See that wall right there? That's where daddy broke his wrist." They walked a few more steps, and then excitement overcame his little girl and she ran towards the door of the school._

 _She turned and waved. "Bye mommy, bye daddy, bye twin terrors!" and then ran towards her teacher._

" _Bartley!" Caroline admonished. "I told you not to call your sons that in front of anyone! Especially your daughter. She repeats everything you say."_

 _He laughed at Caroline's indignant tone as he looked out at his sons, once again off and running around the field, chasing each other for all they were worth. "Can't help it, darlin'. That's what they are – twin terrors. My God, if Bret and I had half of that much energy, how did Pappy keep from killin' us just to make us stand still?"_

 _The school bell rang and the doors closed, and Bart and Caroline turned and walked back the way they'd come. They'd bought Dorado Martin's ranch when they moved to Magdalena, and home was just up over the rise. Another shriek pierced the air and Bart called out to the boys, "Joseph Breton, James Bartley, come this way now. We're goin' back home."_

 _He looked at the still beautiful woman walking beside him and reached again for her hand. "I love you, Caroline Maverick."_

 _She laughed and waved a finger in his face. "Don't you be flirting with me, sir. My husband's a_ _VERY_ _jealous man."_

" _He has every right to be," Bart told her, laughing. "He has a breathtakingly beautiful wife. Do you suppose he'd shoot me if I stole a kiss?"_

" _Probably, but go ahead and do it anyway."_

 _And as they walked back up the hill towards their home he did just that._

Bien – Alright


	27. Only Love Can Break a Heart

Chapter 27 – Only Love Can Break a Heart

He opened his eyes to a dull ache in his right arm. Had he carried Della too long? He looked around the room. Nothing was familiar. Where was Caroline? And the boys – they never let him sleep this long. He tried to sit up by himself, but he couldn't get any leverage – his right arm hurt too much. "Jamie! Joey! Where are you, you little rascals? Caroline? Honey, are you alright?" he called out. Where was everyone?

Then a face appeared in his line of vision. It wasn't Caroline, but he recognized it. It was Melodia Montoya, their good friend and Della's godmother and teacher. Oh my God! Something had happened to Della! Where was she? Is that where Caroline was?

"Bart, wake up. It's Melodia. Caroline's . . . . . . gone. And there's no one here named Della or Jamie or Joey. You're in Magdalena, remember? You and Alonzo were building a school when you got hurt? Look at me, Bart. Caroline's gone." She cupped his face with both her hands and made him look into her eyes.

What? What did she mean, Caroline's gone? Gone where? Gone . . . . . . . dead? And no Della or Jamie or Joseph Breton? No . . . . . no . . . . . no . . . . then it all came roaring back to him, and he remembered. Lon Tenley . . . Caroline . . . the desperate flight to Mexico . . . the drinking and the cheating and finally . . . . . the gun in the livery, and the misfire that saved his life. He saw the sadness, and the sympathy, and the pity in her eyes, and felt the desperate stab of pain that permeated every inch of his soul . . . . and there was nothing left to do but give in to the anguish that swept over him. With an involuntary shudder the tears came, making a trail down his face and dripping onto his shirt, and she pulled his head towards her and held him tight in her embrace while his heart broke all over again.

Slowly the tremors subsided, and she finally released her grip on him when he was still and quiet. "Alright now?" she asked, and he nodded slowly and carefully. "Bad dream?"

He shook his head. "Nope. Bad waking up. Sorry."

Her questions were gentle but probative. "You have those often?"

There was hesitancy in his answer as if he was thinking back over the last few weeks. "Not since we started working on the school."

"So maybe physical activity keeps the dreams at bay?"

"Yeah. I guess so." There was a brief pause, then he asked, "So what do I do now?"

It was Melodia's turn to shake her head helplessly. "I don't know, Bart. I don't know what you can do. Have you tried praying about it?"

"No. I don't think God's talkin' to me right now."

"Even if he's not talking to you, he's always listening." She gave him her best smile, hoping that he wouldn't notice how much she grieved for him, and longed to pull him back into her arms and hold him.

"Even after . . . . . . . . . . . . ." his voice trailed off, remembering that she didn't know what he'd attempted to do that night in the livery.

"It doesn't matter. He'll listen to you."

It was something to think about. Maybe it was time to ask God . . . . . . . . . . maybe it was time.

XXXXXXXX

They were going to the Sequestre house for supper. Alonzo had returned to Bart's hotel room bearing the invitation, and insisted that Imelda was NOT willing to accept anything other than a promise to be there at seven o'clock. Melodia held her breath, hoping that Bart would agree to go. He did, and she was pleased to see he didn't intend to isolate himself in the hotel room.

It was a pleasant visit. Imelda was an outstanding cook and she'd wanted to get to know this gringo gambler that her husband and friend seemed to be so fond of. Bart, in spite of being in pain and feeling awkward with Melodia cutting his food for him, did his best to be his charming, funny self. He enchanted Alonzo's wife with his remembrances of his mother as a small boy and enthralled her with stories about him and Bret and their cousin Beau growing up in Texas. Imelda laughed so hard at his stories about letting frogs loose in his Uncle Bentley's kitchen that she had to get up and leave the room. They laughed and drank coffee and played any number of card games during the evening, and by the time Bart and Melodia left she was thoroughly smitten. He'd succeeded in winning over his biggest skeptic.

Melodia was worn out and more than ready to get some sleep. Bart sent her upstairs and stayed outside, smoking a cigar. The night was clear and cloudless, and the full moon shone brightly on the little street. He'd gotten through the whole day and most of the evening without touching the laudanum, but it was late and even if his mind wasn't ready for sleep his body was tired. He wanted the pain in his right arm to go away. He'd brought the bottle with him, just in case he needed it, and now that he was almost ready to retire for the night he took a swallow or two of the sticky brown liquid. It still had a bitter taste, and quite frankly he couldn't tell much difference between the medicine and the mescal that he'd drunk so much of. He returned the bottle to his coat pocket after a minute or two of fumbling with it and tried to flex the fingers on his right hand.

They were stiff and ached. Even if they hadn't been broken they were badly bruised, and he wondered again if he was going to have the dexterity he'd had before with the cards. Well, he could always go back to the Double C Ranch and live the life of a gentleman rancher if he couldn't play poker. That was a sober and frightening thought, and he shivered involuntarily. Right now the idea of having to live out his days in the place that he'd been happy with Caroline, however briefly, was one of his more repulsive prospects. Better that than life back in Little Bend, though, where everyone would remember him as the one Maverick who could no longer maneuver a deck of cards.

He sighed and relit his cigar. Of course, he could always stay here in Mexico. What would he do here? Probably anything he could do in Texas, or New Mexico, or anywhere else. He'd never wanted to be anything but "just like Pappy" and play poker for a living, so the thought of anything besides that was abhorrent. At least in Mexico he'd have no reminders of the life he used to have.

Could he be happy in Mexico? Could he be happy anywhere? Happiness might be a way of life that was out of reach for him. He might be able to be content, with a girl like Melodia, or a spitfire like Dorado Martin. But happiness? He was sure that had died with Caroline. Was he willing to settle for content?

He thought about his dream of earlier in the day. Della. Jamie. Joey. The new baby that was not to be. He'd never have them, but he could still have some version of them with a different woman. That was the problem, wasn't it? Caroline was gone, and without her 'their' children would never exist. What if they were the only ones that he could love, because she was their mother? Would he be content with another woman, other children?

He took a draw on the cigar, then found himself yawning. At least the laudanum was good for something, even if it tried its best to destroy his stomach. He finished the stogie and threw the end of it into the street, finally ready to attempt sleep again. _'Please God,'_ he thought, _'no more tonight. Please.'_

"Caroline," he whispered to the night, calling for his lost love to save him, then turned and went inside and up the stairs. It was still and quiet in the hallway, and silent in the room. The girl was already asleep. Bless her heart, why did she try so hard to help him? He was nothing special and she could do much better. And then he remembered what Alonzo had told him, and what had been right in front of him for a while. She'd fallen in love with him. Poor Melodia. He wouldn't. He couldn't. And the thought of her unrequited love broke his heart all over again.


	28. The Sounds of Silence

Chapter 28 – The Sounds of Silence

Monday morning saw a flurry of activity at the school site. It seemed odd to Alonzo to have anyone there with him besides the gambler, and it took a while to get everyone set on the right tasks. It was almost nine o'clock when an unfamiliar buggy drove up to the location carrying Bart and Melodia. "Transportation courtesy of Dorado," Bart explained. "She left it for us to use as long as we need it." Melodia climbed down out of the buggy and went over to talk to the new builders; Bart scrambled down one-handed.

Alonzo laughed quietly. "How do you manage this? Every woman in town falls in love with you."

Bart wore a puzzled expression. "Who . . . . . . ?"

"Melodia. Dorado Martin. And my Imelda."

A shake of the head accompanied the next remark. "Sorry, Zo. It's not somethin' I try to do." He paused for a minute and what Alonzo'd said finally sank in. "Dorado? What makes you say that? IMELDA?"

Melodia turned around at the sound of her friend's name. "What about Imelda?"

"Nothing. Absolutely nothing."

"Si. My woman. The mother of my child. And now she loves my compadre." Alonzo shrugged and laughed harder.

"I didn't do a thing, I swear!"

"All I heard yesterday after iglesia was 'He is so smart. And so handsome. And so funny.' And now I think I must kill you to get her back!"

Bart raised his left hand in surrender. "Not guilty! I plead not guilty!"

"Seriously, how is the wrist this morning?"

"Better than it was Friday night. Doc wants to see me today to recast it. It's loose now that the swellin's gone down some."

"I am so – "

The gambler wouldn't let him go any further. "Please stop tellin' me you're sorry. It was an accident. Enough said."

Alonzo nodded his head as if finally accepting Bart's word as gospel. "I think we'll be ready for the windows soon."

"It'll go even faster now that we've got some help. Sorry I was so slow, Alonzo."

"You were not slow, Bart. It was my pleasure to work alongside you."

Bart chuckled, laughing at the thought of the heart palpitations Pappy would have if he knew what his youngest son had spent the last few weeks doing. Even worse, what would Pappy do if he had to 'retire' from being a professional gambler? He automatically flexed his right hand as much as he could, and the hand responded by cramping and aching. So much for co-operation.

Melodia wandered back over. "Are you ready to go to Señorita Martin's house?" Dorado had left word for them to come to the ranch this morning. He hadn't any idea what she wanted, but they were headed that way after they left the school site.

"Yes, ma'am. There's nothin' I can do here but get in the way. We'll see ya on the way back, Zo."

They drove up the road to Dorado's ranch. While climbing the hill Melodia was extremely quiet until she suddenly asked Bart a question. "I heard Alonzo say that Dorado Martin was in love with you. Do you love her too?"

"What? Alonzo was teasing. Dorado Martin's not in love with anybody that I know of. Certainly not me. I've only seen the woman three or four times in my whole life. It was a joke, Melodia. That's all. Just a joke."

"Oh."

Their arrival at the Martin house precluded any further discussion of Alonzo's offhanded joke. Asunta answered the door and showed them inside. Dorado swept into the room and after a hug for Melodia she stepped back and took a long look at Bart. "He looks like a wounded puppy, doesn't he Melodia?"

"Si. Señorita Martin. But I'm afraid it's more than just a wound."

"Please, it's Dorado. Have a seat. Asunta, coffee please?"

The cook nodded and went to the kitchen. When she returned, she had three cups and a pot full of that delicious smelling coffee that Bart remembered. "Thank you, Asunta." Dorado poured and Bart grinned, knowing what was coming.

"Wait till you taste this, Melodia. It's Dorado's own blend."

The school teacher nodded after her first swallow. "It's delicious. I've never tasted anything like it."

Dorado laughed. "I hope not. Good thing you can drink coffee one-handed, Mr. Gambler. Well, you probably wonder why I asked the two of you to come out here. I've given this a great deal of thought, and I've decided that I don't want to sell the land the school is being built on."

Bart was taken aback, but managed to get out, "It's a little late for that now, Dorado, isn't it?"

Dorado laughed heartily. "No, no, no, I'm sorry. You misunderstand. I want to give this back to you. Use it for whatever the school needs. I'm giving the land to the town."

She handed Bart an envelope that was full of money. He looked at it as best he could one-handed. It was the money he'd given her to purchase the piece of land that he and Alonzo were building the school on.

"I don't . . . . . . . . . I mean, thank you. What changed your mind?"

Dorado shook her head. "The three of you. You've all been working so hard to get this built – you were even out there working on it yourself. I couldn't keep the money. I wanted to do something to help, too, so I had a new deed drawn up. It's in there with the money. The land belongs to the town of Magdalena. I hope you don't mind."

Bart shook his head. "Not in the least. We'll put it to good use."

Melodia set down her coffee cup and crossed the room to Dorado. "Gracias, Señorita. That will go a long way towards buying the supplies the school needs. From the bottom of my heart, gracias." She gave Dorado a hug and a kiss on the cheek.

"Well, I've done my good deed. Anybody interested in some breakfast? Asunta's got sweet rolls and biscuits out there. And we can send some back to the builders, too."

XXXXXXXX

"Quite a morning, wouldn't you say?" Bart asked as he and Melodia headed back towards town. "That is not what I was expecting."

Melodia gave a little laugh. "And to think that everyone was afraid of the Señorita. Myself included. We misjudged her without ever meeting her."

"Uh-huh. She has a good heart. And you were worried about her being in love with me. Are your fears put to rest now?"

"Si, and I am ashamed that I questioned you. Your life is your own, to do with as you please."

He reached across the buggy and laid his hand on her arm. "I'm not in love with her, either, Melodia. You know how I feel about Caroline."

"Si."

"Besides, If I was going to love someone else . . . . . . . . ."

Neither of them was willing to finish the thought, and they rode the rest of the way back into town in silence.

Iglesia - Church


	29. A Few More Days

Chapter 29 – A Few More Days

Doctor Mendez changed the cast twice in the next three weeks. Bart kept trying to stretch and maneuver his fingers, but once the bruised and jammed appendages were well on their way to healing they were still stiff and uncooperative. He persisted in attempting to flex them and once even tried shuffling a deck of cards, but he wasn't going to make any real progress until the cast was off. The doctor seemed pleased with the healing process, however, and most of the pain was gone.

When participation in the physical labor stopped, Bart's ability to sleep the night through without dreaming one disturbing thing or another went with it. Melodia finally understood what Bart meant when he'd talked about 'not sleeping and watching the town.' Many a morning she woke to find him sitting in a chair at the window, staring out into the sunrise. She didn't question what he did while he sat there or what he thought about, and he didn't volunteer any information. His old pattern returned; spending three or four nights in a row like that, barely sleeping any at all, and then finally dead to the world for a night, only to start the pattern over again.

The walls went up in the school and the windows went in; finally the roof was ready to be built and put on. True to his word, Bart was there almost every day, watching the daily progress and helping with all the decisions being made. His mind was sorry that he couldn't assist anymore with the actual construction, but his body was quite glad to be finished with the work.

Once the roof was on the crew could move inside to finish the job. They had tables and chairs to build, a desk for the teacher and a storage closet. Everything was almost completed by the time the cast was ready to be removed from Bart's wrist. Melodia had to remind him that if Mendez wasn't happy with the progress he'd made the doctor would put another provisional cast back on, so there was excitement, fear and apprehension going through his mind when they went to the physician's office.

It was fortunate that Melodia had prepared him, since Doctor Mendez took one look at the wrist and decided it needed another two weeks, albeit with a smaller cast. The new one gave Bart some maneuvering room with his fingers, and he immediately started manipulating a deck of cards. He was awkward and clumsy at first, and couldn't believe how hard he had to work just to hold five cards correctly. It was like learning to play all over again – no, it was worse, because he knew and understood what his hands were supposed to do with the deck – they just couldn't do it.

He worked with the cards constantly. Shuffling, dealing, anything that he could do to try and regain his dexterity. He sat inside the almost completed school and practiced hour after hour while the crew Alonzo had hired finished up around him. At the end of the two weeks he went back to the doctor, accompanied by Melodia, and this visit received good news. When he walked out of the doctor's office with nothing on his wrist except his shirt he felt like he'd been a jailed criminal, suddenly set free. He insisted on taking the school teacher to dinner that night and was most grateful that he could finally pull out her chair using both hands.

"Now that the cast is off and the school is all but done, what are you going to do?"

"Do?" Bart questioned.

"Yes, what now? Stay here, play poker, go back across the border, what?"

He shook his head. "I'm not sure. For now I'm gonna stay here. At least until I know whether I'm gonna be able to manipulate a deck a cards again. When I've got an answer to that question, I'll make a decision about the other one. When are you goin' back to the boardin' house?"

Ah, yes. The boarding house. She was hoping . . . . . . oh well, it was not meant to be like that. "In the morning. Tonight's my last night with you. You should be happy to see me move out. You get your privacy back."

' _What if I don't want my privacy back?'_ He thought, but said nothing. He admitted to himself that it had been a comfort to have her there with him, especially when he couldn't sleep. He'd gotten so used to her being around that he wasn't sure he needed or even wanted to be alone. "So soon? Maybe it could wait a few days?"

"Well, I, uh . . . . . . . . " she stumbled. Why had he asked her to stay? Was he just lonely, or was there some other reason? She remembered what he'd said on the way back to town after the visit to Dorado's. _"Besides, If I was going to love someone else . . . . . . . . ."_ She held her breath and hoped against hope. "Alright, for a few more days. But I must return sometime soon. I have a school year to get ready for."

"A few more days," he repeated. He wouldn't be any more ready for her to leave in a few days than he was now. But a few days was better than tomorrow morning. "Good. Now how about dessert?"

XXXXXXXX

He tried sleeping, but at two in the morning he finally gave up and moved to the chair in front of the window. What was the topic his brain had picked to flog to death tonight? Oh yes, his brother. He wondered if Samantha Crawford had found Bret and let him know Bart was alive. He really did want to make sure Bret knew, but he couldn't risk sending another wire. Bret was the only reason that he'd given serious consideration to returning to the States, but now that the cast was finally off his wrist he could justify delaying the decision to stay or leave. He flexed his hand and fingers unconsciously, and the joints cracked and popped but offered no further resistance.

He'd almost been afraid to pick up a deck of cards now that he had no excuse not to. He reached around to his jacket, hung on the back of the chair he sat in, and fished the deck out of his inside pocket. The cards felt stiff and unyielding, and he tried the one-handed ruffling technique he'd developed while still a youngster. Instead of falling neatly into place in his other hand the way they were supposed to, the entire deck shot into the air, almost as if they were birds in flight. He sat there in disgust and looked at the mess they'd made on the floor and would have laughed out loud were it not for the girl asleep in her bed in the corner of the room.

"Great cardsharp you'd make," he muttered to himself as he bent over the chair to pick up all of the deck he could reach. "Let's try that again." No better the second time, he once again picked up scattered cards. Funny, they'd all landed face down, except for one solitary card. The Queen of Hearts. He looked out into the night. "Is that some kind of a joke?" he asked the blackness that stared back at him. "If it is, it's not funny."

The girl said something and stirred. Had he woken her up? He sat frozen in silence for a few minutes until he determined that she'd simply been restless and was still asleep. _'Now what are you gonna do about Melodia, you stubborn jackass?'_ his brain questioned him, and he had no immediate answer. What was he going to do about her? He should have let her leave in the morning and return to her own room. He still could, he told himself, knowing full well that he wouldn't. Even though self-centered was an apt description of him, he didn't just want her there with him right now. He needed her there. She seemed to be the only thing that anchored him, made him conscious of being alive rather than buried in New Mexico with Caroline. The school had done that at first, but it seemed to slip through the grasp of his fingers once he was injured.

And what was he going to do if he couldn't play poker anymore? Where could he run to this time? Or could he just stay here and hide behind the schoolteacher? Of course he could, she was in love with him. And what would that accomplish? Especially when she realized that he didn't love her, but was simply using her as a crutch? No, he couldn't do that to Melodia. She was a sweet girl, a real friend, and all he wanted was to see her happy. So if he were to stay in Mexico, they would have to come to an understanding, if that was even possible. Then what would he do? That remained the question. Maybe he'd have been better off if the gun hadn't misfired. And once again his thoughts wandered back to his brother Bret.

Maybe he would have been better off (the self-centered part of him reared its ugly head again) but he didn't think his brother would be. Bret's life would be more quiet and peaceful, that's for sure. But nowhere near as much fun. He had to grin to himself. Bart thought back to when they were in the Confederate army, hiding out in a house in Charleston. They were twenty-one and twenty years old, and two sisters owned the house, both in their late twenties. For a solid week, all four forgot about the useless war and just enjoyed each other. And then the Union army arrived, and the Mavericks ran for their lives, not for the last time. But it was the thought of that week that brought the smile to his face.

He was still smiling when he heard, "Couldn't sleep again?"

"Oh, I slept for a couple hours. Get up, lazybones. It's morning."

"Is not. It's still dark out. What time is it?"

He pulled his watch out and looked at it. "It's almost six. How about breakfast?"

She pulled the pillow over her head, but he heard her laugh underneath it. "How about sleep instead?"


	30. The Last Goodbye

Chapter 30 – The Last Goodbye

Building was completed just as summer started and it was decided that the new school year would begin in September. The town christened the building The Maverick School and Bart prayed that Pappy never found out. If he'd sent Cousin Beau to England just for winning a medal in the war, God only knows what he would do with his son for having a school named for him.

Melodia finally returned to the boarding house; Bart couldn't think of any reason to extend her stay with him. He was fully capable of taking care of himself. Both were sorry the time had come for them to start off on new lives, but the girl couldn't stay there any longer, knowing that the gambler didn't love her. And the gambler couldn't love the girl because he still grieved for his deceased wife.

Bart spent hours working with the cards each day and began playing poker locally and honestly to give his hands and his mind additional exercise. He and Melodia still spent a good deal of time together, but the closer it got to September the less time she had available. He started riding out to Dorado's ranch every two or three days, and they whiled away a lot of time talking and riding. Dorado was a good listener, and he told her all the Maverick tales he had to tell.

Slowly over a period of weeks the feeling and dexterity in his fingers returned, and as the days passed everything began to come back to him. The wrist was still stiff at times and tended to ache when the weather changed, but those were minor inconveniences. One afternoon he was practising all the 'keeping everyone honest' manipulations that Pappy taught him and he absentmindedly ruffled the cards. They floated perfectly to his other hand, just as they were supposed to, and he knew the time to make a decision about his future had arrived.

He rode out the next morning to talk to Alonzo and arrived just as the doctor was leaving. Sequestre came running outside, thinking the doctor had forgotten something and was happy to see his friend instead.

"The baby?" Bart inquired.

"Si, Bart. Imelda and the baby are sleeping. Come in and see him." Alonzo clapped his friend on the shoulders and ushered him inside. Mother and son were doing splendidly; it had been an easy delivery and both looked peaceful and content.

"Congratulations, mi amigo. You decided what to name him?"

A big smile alighted on Alonzo's face. "Si. Alonzo Bartley Sequestre."

"Alonzo Bart - don't do that to the little guy, Zo. I beg of you." Bart shook his head, but he was secretly delighted at the gesture.

"Too late, compadre. It's already done. He will be christened in church on Sunday. Will you be there?"

"That's what I came to talk to you about. Let's go outside."

Once they were back on the porch, Bart offered Alonzo a cigar and lit both. Alonzo sat in Imelda's rocking chair and Bart leaned against the porch railing and smoked. "You are not here to give me happy news, are you?"

The gambler shook his head. "It's time for me to leave, Alonzo. You and the ladies need to get on with your lives, and it's time I went back to mine. I did what I intended to do; the school's almost ready to open. I've still got a brother out there in the world that I have to find. And a lot of things to make up for."

"I understand, mi amigo. Can you stay until Sunday? It would mean a lot to us if you would be there for the christening."

Bart had intended to leave the next day, but Sunday was only two days later. He made a quick decision. "Si. For you and Imelda and baby Alonzo, I'll stay. Thanks for everything you've done for me, my friend. And give the new mama my best. Now go back in there and be with your wife and baby." Bart threw the remainder of the cigar into the dirt and embraced his friend. "You're a lucky man," he told the builder and mounted his horse. He rode towards the school, where Melodia was going to be working today.

Her horse was tied outside and he pulled the mare up next to the gelding and tied her to the hitching rail. Opening the door and walking inside was an experience he was glad to have; the school bore his name, after all. He looked around inside quietly while Melodia worked on another in a long string of prepared lessons. When he took a step she finally heard him and looked up, a delighted smile spreading across her face. "Bart!" she called happily. "Welcome to your school!"

Ha laughed heartily. "Not my school, Melodia, yours. If it weren't for you, there'd be no school."

She shook her head and stood to greet him, planting a kiss on his cheek. "My idea, your execution. I would still be saving money to return to Hermosillo instead of preparing to teach my first year. I give you all the credit in the world." She saw the expression on his face, which had turned serious, and her smile disappeared. "What's wrong, Bart?"

"Nothin'," he answered. "I've just come from the Sequestre's house. Imelda had the baby this mornin', a boy. Alonzo Bartley Sequestre. I protested but his father ignored me. But that's not why I'm here."

She studied him intently, this man that she had come to know so well. "You've made your decision. You're leaving, aren't you?" She looked up at him, into his eyes, and no answer was needed. She saw the truth of her words there.

"Si. It's time for me to go. You're about to start a new life, one you've always wanted, and I need to leave so you can do that."

"You know, don't you?" Even now she didn't say the words, but he knew exactly what she meant.

"Yes," he nodded, switching the answer back to English. "I'm sorry, I wish I could – "

"It's alright," she responded quickly. "You still love your wife. Maybe you always will. There will be another for me."

"I hope so," Bart told her, and bent to kiss her cheek. For the first and last time she turned her head and kissed him full on the lips, and he held her the way he could have so many times and kissed her back. When they stepped apart he gave a little laugh. "I'm not leaving until Sunday. I promised Alonzo I'd be at the christening for the baby."

"And I'll not kiss you like that when we are in church. But just once - thank you for my new life. I'll never forget."

"Nor will I." He turned quickly and left the school, untying his mare and riding away. She walked to the door and watched until she could no longer see him.

True to his word, he was at little Alonzo's christening on Sunday. When everything was over, he said his goodbyes and once again mounted the mare, this time with everything he owned in his war bag. As he rode north more than one person said a silent 'thank you' to the gringo that had fled to their town to grieve a loss and left it more complete than when he'd arrived.

TBC


	31. Brother Bret

Chapter 31 – Brother Bret

He'd been more worried than he cared to admit when he'd gotten the first telegram from Bart over a year ago. Andthe regretted the smart aleck telegram he'd sent back, never for a minute believing that his brother would actually marry the girl:

' _My best wishes to you and your new wife. Don't tell Pappy.'_ Signed _'Brother Bret.'_

Then he heard nothing for months. Until he got Samantha's urgent message that Bart's wife had been murdered and his brother had turned to stone. Not literally, of course, but Bart was not eating, or sleeping, or playing poker, or talking. Bret packed up everything and caught the next stage for Santa Fe. That still meant it took him almost a week to arrive in Dry Springs, and by the time he did Bart was long gone. He sat Samantha down and made her tell him the whole sorry tale, and when she was finished he was sure of two things – his brother had been desperately in love with Caroline, and Bart's heart was truly broken.

As was his own, when he thought about it. He'd ignored Bart's plea for help and guidance and this was the end result. And as he spent time with Jess Wilson and Walter Black and Jimmy Whitlock at the ranch, he began to realize that he had seriously misjudged his brother's abilities to fit in, both on the ranch and with the men that had worked for him. Bart was upbeat and cheerful and hard-working, and the way he felt about Caroline was genuine and evident, as were her feelings for him. And when the stories of Bart's disintegration started surfacing, Bret blamed himself more than anyone. Drunken nights in Mexico. Crooked poker games. And then – nothing.

He took his leave of Samantha and went south – Ciudad Juarez, San Agustin, Guadalupe, Chihuahua, Hermosillo, and every little town in-between. He wired everyone – Jim Buckley, Jack Darby, Anderson Garrett, their cousin Beau, and so many others he couldn't even remember. When he ran out of funds he returned to the states; back through Texas, New Mexico, and Arizona, scouring everywhere he could think of to try and find the missing Maverick. He played poker when he had to, but his main occupation in life was trying to find his brother.

Until he reached Yuma, Arizona. He'd been minding his own business, playing cards quietly with a group of semi-friendly ranch hands when one of them decided he'd lost enough and somebody must be cheating. Of course he settled all his suspicions on the professional and challenged Bret to a gunfight. Bret, being the sensible coward that he claimed to be, politely declined. Before he had a chance to calmly and quietly talk the cowboy down the fool had pulled his gun and taken a pot shot at Bret. Fortunately, he was drunker than a skunk and missed badly. In all the confusion and chaos that reigned somebody shot the drunk and Maverick got blamed, even though he'd never so much as reached for his gun. Maverick luck reared its ugly head – the cowhand was the sheriff's brother.

As Bret sat in the jail cell trying to figure out how he'd gotten into this mess, the sheriff was more than willing to let a lynch mob take his prisoner off his hands, without bothering to ascertain whether the man he'd arrested was guilty. Things were getting ugly rapidly when the actual shooter developed a conscience for some reason and admitted the assault. His justification was self-defense. Bret was unceremoniously set free and couldn't get out of town fast enough.

He spent the next few weeks with his eyes and ears open, waiting to hear some word of his missing kin. When he didn't, he had to get on with his own life, knowing that if Bart was out there somewhere he would turn up eventually. He never stopped hoping and investigating every possibility he could afford to investigate, and he never went to sleep at night without praying for his brother's safe passage and return.

He tried to reach Samantha but got no response from her. Whether she was angry with him or just too busy to respond, he didn't know. Then he heard rumors of a Maverick sighting in Denver and hurried there as fast as he could travel, only to discover the sighting had occurred when Bart was searching for him in that city, months ago.

The seasons changed, one, two, three times, and still there was no word of or from his brother. He rode through Carson City and stayed with Anderson Garrett for a few days; they spent most of the time talking about Bart. Anderson was almost certain that Bart was somewhere in Mexico, even after Bret assured the man that he'd scoured the countryside and found no trace of his brother. Anderson next suggested New Orleans, and Bret considered that a possibility. So off he went to New Orleans, scrupulously avoiding Texas lest he run into their father and have to explain to Pappy the reason for his youngest son's disappearance.

He spent over a week in the Mardi Gras city, haunting all of Bart's favorite places and getting nowhere. Finally he gave up and played poker, forcing himself to pay attention to the cards and winning enough to get him back out west. He worked his way back across the south and was careful to avoid his hometown. Another month passed and he finally threw in the towel. If Bart was alive, he was in hiding. If Bart was alive. All Bret could do now was wait and pray. And wait some more.

And then one week he found himself in Talmadge, New Mexico. He had every intention of moving on in a day or two, but every time he was ready to leave new people would appear in town, most with money and looking for a poker game. Since he kept winning, he stayed. And that's how he came to be standing outside the Talmadge River Saloon one morning - hungry, in need of coffee, and smoking a cigar, when a familiar figure came riding down the street.

"Hey, Bart!" Bret called out as the horse and rider approached. The man straightened slightly in the saddle and smiled. "Brother Bret!" he yelled from about 10 feet away. Bart reined his horse over to the hitching rail and dismounted. Bret was so happy to see Bart in one piece that he practically threw his arms around his younger brother. Bart slapped Bret on the shoulder and pulled away from the unusual display of affection. "I didn't know you were here in Talmadge," Bart laughed.

"Yeah, been here since Tuesday. Every time I get ready to leave somebody new comes along to donate to the 'keep Mavericks gainfully unemployed' fund. I was just about to go get breakfast. Join me?"

To Bret's surprise, Bart nodded yes. "Sure. Sounds like an excellent idea."

Bret looked at Bart carefully. Outwardly he looked respectable. A little thinner, if that was even possible. Hair a little longer. Could stand a good shave. His clothes were a mite trail dirty, but that was an easy fix. It was what Bret couldn't see that worried him.

They went inside and ate, and laughed and talked about everything but the obvious. Bret had noticed a gold pinky ring on Bart's right hand when they entered the café, but he hesitated to mention it. He speculated that his brother might have won it playing poker, and it was only some time later during the meal that he realized what it was – Bart's wedding ring. His brother seemed so much like his old self that finally Bret just had to bring up the missing months.

"Say, Bart, you disappeared for a long time. Want to talk about what happened?"

Bart's whole body stiffened for just a moment. In that second Bret saw the flicker of something in his eyes, so horrifying that it was painful to see. It was there for just an instant and then was gone.

Bart forced himself to relax. He smiled and answered his brother, the only answer he could give. "Nope."

"But I – "

Bart didn't wait, he interrupted immediately. "Not now, Bret. Someday, maybe, but not now."

Bret stared intently at his brother and saw a more subdued version of what he'd seen earlier. Finally he answered, and it was the response Bart was looking for. "Alright. Whenever you're ready. I'll leave it up to you."

Bart nodded his head in acknowledgment. "Someday. I promise. Did Sam get hold of you like I asked her to?"

"I haven't heard from Samantha in months. I tried to reach her but got no answer. What was she supposed to tell me?"

Bart shook his head. "I'm sorry. I wanted her to find you and let you know I was alive."

Bret thought for a minute and asked the next question, although he probably already knew the answer. "Why didn't you wire me yourself?"

"Would you have come looking for me?"

"Yes."

"There's your answer." Bart grinned. He'd known exactly what his brother would do.

"Now what, Brother Bart?"

"Don't know, Brother Bret. Think I might go to New Orleans for a while. Wanna go?"

"Sure. Why don't you wire Cousin Beau and see if he wants to join us? And don't be surprised if Anderson's there by the time we get there."

"You saw Anderson?"

Bret nodded. "Spent some time with him in Carson City."

"What were you doin' in Carson City?"

The older brother shook his head. "Whatta ya think I was doin' in Carson City?"

"Uh . . . . . . . . "

"I was lookin' for you." That was said with affection and complaint.

"Oh." Bart looked down at the ground. "Sorry. Hope you didn't waste too much time."

Bret wrapped his arm around Bart's neck and pulled him closer. "It wasn't a waste of time."

"Glad to hear that. Let go of me, would ya? Where is Cousin Beau, anyway?"

"He's in Kansas City. Tell him we'll pick him up on the way, then we can head downriver. If you're ready to go we can leave as soon as the wire's sent and I check out of my hotel," Bret offered.

"Sure," Bart answered, and they both laughed. It was good to be back together.

The End


End file.
